Heaven's Talent, Satan's Heart
by AbbyTheBlue
Summary: Sherlock considered himself more of a researcher than a hunter, and he knew a million ways to kill a million creatures. And yet, two seemingly average brothers named Sam and Dean seem different to him. They learn more and more about each other's pasts and possibly futures as a hunt the likes of which none of them have ever seen begins to unfold before them. (Image not mine)
1. Chapter 1: Pretty Far From a Hunter

It seemed like vampires only ever camped out in old warehouses.

Because nonetheless, Sam and Dean found themselves in another spooky old warehouse that smelled like piss and didn't have lights. It was a little irritating, but it was worth it, saving lives. Their guards up, the two hunting brothers had flashlights crossed over their sabers, eyes searching for any sign of movement. So far, there had been nothing.

They continued walking through the dark that seemed as thick as fog, until finally, they heard a sound. A soft pitter patter of footsteps clattered behind them. They flipped around to see it, but only found the paint-chipped walls. After looking for another moment, Sam Winchester turned to Dean. They briefly nodded at each other, then continued to investigate.

Softly, another sound began to emit from the corner of the room. A deep, low, growling. It wasn't deep enough to be some sort of animal. In fact, it sounded human. Sam and Dean pointed the flashlight, to see two vampires, teeth showing, snarling at them in the corner. Before they could do anything the two leapt for them

Two shots rang out through the warehouse. The bullets hit both vampires squarely in the heart, but obviously, they didn't stop.

"Dean, don't shoot them in the heart!" Sam said obviously.

"My gun isn't even out!" He rebutted. He raised his saber in the air, ready to cut their heads off, but he found he didn't have to. He found the vampires slowing. They fell to their knees, gasping softly, as though in pain. For a moment, they stared up, and then, one after the other. They collapsed, and stopped moving. No blood came from their hearts, but their eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. They were still… twitching.

Sam and Dean looked at each other for a moment, awestruck. A shot to the heart didn't kill a vampire, obviously, so how were they dead? Or, at least, near dead?

"How did you do that?" Dean demanded.

"I thought it was you!" He replied defensively.

"It wasn't!"

"Well, it wasn't me!"

"Then who-"

"I believe it's me you're referring to."

The heads of both the Winchesters turned to look in between them, their flashlights revealing somebody just behind them. The unknown man was out stapped out of the shadows. He had a tall, and lanky figure with a straight back, and a long, black trench coat with a dark blue scarf around his neck. His hair was raven black and slightly curly, and his eyes were sharp, analyzing, and icy greenish-blue. His skin was so pale he looked like a cadaver. He had high cheekbones and a stern face as he looked at the gun he was holding. Quickly, they watched as he put the gun back in his inside pocket, pulled out a black notebook, and began to write.

"How the Hell did you do that?!" Dean asked instantly. "Vamps aren't killed by a shot to the heart!"

"Not usually, no." Said the stranger. "These aren't regular bullets."

"What the Hell's in them?! It certainly packs quite a punch." He said.

"Holy gel, garlic root, and trace amounts of North American viburnum." He said, not looking up at Dean.

"What?" He asked cluelessly.

"Holy water mixed with cornstarch and adhesive, garlic, and devil's shoestring," He repeated, slightly changing his phrasing.

"That doesn't make any sense." Dean said roughly.

"It makes perfect sense." The man said coolly. He had a deep voice and a London accent. "Garlic is considered a folk tale amongst most hunters, but actually they only consider it that because it has no effect on contact to the skin. However, upon being ingested or injected into the bloodstream it begins with an acidic, than paralyzing effect. Devil's shoestring typically is used for warding off hellhounds, and hellhounds alone, so why would it work on vampires? Easy. Vampires and hellhounds share many of the same traits, the teeth, the savage eyes, and many similar strands in DNA, and some of the earliest lore about vampires said that, similarly to werewolves, they were infected by a large, ravenous dog. Fitting the description of a hellhound. The devil's shoestring can keep them back for a few inches, before they can struggle through it. That, however, is all it takes. If aimed correctly, the bullet, which is made of a weak tin as to break on impact, releases the holy gel as it hits the heart. As vampires are not demons but demonic, this stops them for a moment, and it adheres to the heart. The viburnum mixes with the gel, also adhering to the heart, easily able to hold back such a gentle motion as a heartbeat. Therefore, the heart stops. The vampire is still alive, but, as it is human and vaguely demon, it needs a heartbeat to continue its functions, leaving it to usually collapse within a few seconds. The beating heart can not surpass the viburnum it is coated in. Then, as soon as that happens, the garlic in the mixture is able to seep into the veins with some of the holy gel. Slowly, by gravity and pre-set current of the blood, it poisons much of the body, usually in the chest area. This process altogether slowly poisons and kills the vampire." He explained thoroughly. The Winchester brothers stared at him, totally lost and awestruck. They glanced at each other. As far as they knew, you cut the heads off of vampires. End of story. They had no clue so much science could be involved.

"So… are they dead?" Sam asked finally.

Sherlock hesitated for half a second before his spoke. His eyes darted over Sam for a moment before he continued as though nothing had happened. "Not yet. Will be, in a few hours." He replied.

"Uh… wow…" Sam chuckled lightly, looking at the twitching vampires. "You're a genius." He stated bluntly. "Who are you?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes." He said, a slightly confident smile crossing his face, as he stuck his notebook back in his pocket. "Best hunter you two will ever find." And with that, he turned around, pushed open the door, and was gone.

Sam and Dean left the warehouse physically together, but that was where the similarities ended. Their thoughts were in totally different regions.

Dean walked out actually slightly angry at what the man had said. Well, more than slightly. Trying to recount all the science and technical terms made him feel like an eighth grader failing his science test again. All that science… he was good at chopping off heads and stabbing through hearts. It had never been so complex. _Science in hunting…_ he thought angrily to himself. _There isn't any science in hunting!_

Sam, however, was focused on something else. The way Sherlock looked at him just before he spoke to him sent a chill down his spine. He knew it was probably nothing major, I mean, he had just met him, and most people look at the person they talk to, but the way his cold blue eyes followed him from head to toe. It wasn't a natural look, it was sort of like…

A scientist observing their specimen.

At the same time, the two of them got into the impala. There was a moment of silence between them before Dean spoke.

"That was… weird." He said, looking forward.

"Yeah…" Sam said. "I mean he was a hunter, but like, also…"

"Yeah…" Dean agreed. "I think I'm gonna call Bobby."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Yeah." He said. Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the contact, putting him immediately on speaker. The phone rang three times before Bobby answered the phone.

"Yeah?" He said gruffly. Dean spoke first, as usual.

"Bobby," He said. "We just passed this hunter, we wanna know if you know him." He said.

"Got a name?"

"Um, Sherlock Holmes," Sam said, recalling his name. Bobby replied almost instantly.

"Don't go anywhere near him, boys." He said gravely. "He's not just a hunter."

"He certainly seemed like a hunter," Dean replied obviously.

"Well, he let go of that path a long time ago," Bobby explained. "You know, most hunters do what they do cause they wanna save people, like you and me and Sam,"

"Well, yeah, why else would they do it?" Dean interjected.

"Just listen to what I'm saying, idjit," Bobby replied. Dean shut his mouth. "But he ain't motivated like a regular hunter. This guy only wants to solve the puzzle, and he knows about half a hundred ways to kill half a hundred creatures."

"So?" Dean asked.

"So, he doesn't care about the people in his way. He's probably murdered innocent people just for his experiments."

A chill ran down Dean's spine. That was horrifying. Sam shifted in his seat, admittedly somewhat scared. Is that what that look meant? 'I'm going to experiment on and/or kill you'?

"Well, that's really creepy." Dean confessed. "Thanks Bobby, we'll make sure to stay off his turf."

"Alright boys." He said. With that, Dean hung up the phone. He clearly shivered, but he still seemed fairly casual about the matter.

"Jeez," He said, putting the keys in the ignition. "He certainly sounds like a freaky son of a bitch." His eyes were fairly wide. When Sam didn't speak, he turned to face him. "You okay?" He asked.

"U-uh, yeah." Sam replied. "Just drive."

Humans aren't given enough credit as far as seeing the future. People say it's coincidence, or a hoax, or nonsense, but they're not really aware how apparent it is. I mean, it's not like Sam had a vision of how he was going to die with all the details and a side of french fries, but he never really stopped feeling uneasy that night. He was thinking of Sherlock, and rubbing his eyes, and thinking _something bad's gonna happen, I just know it._

Of course, as most of the world _does_ think that future-vision _is_ coincidence, a hoax, or nonsense (including Sam Winchester) so he assumed he was just sleep-deprived.

"I'm heading in for the night." Sam said through a sigh.

"Dude, it's like, 9:00 at night." Dean said. Sam shook his head.

"Yeah, I know. I dunno, I'm just kinda tired tonight." He argues weakly. Dean shrugged.

"Suit yourself." He said casually.

Sam felt like an idiot that night, what with the checking the mirror behind him, seeing what was behind the shower curtain, turning on the lights, but he couldn't help it. Something was off.

He _was_ tired, or so he thought, but as soon as he laid down that thought seemed to give up there and then. His eyes remained open as he saw Dean go to sleep. 11:00… 12:00… finally, as 12:30 neared, he shut his eyes and sank into a shallow sleep, where his thoughts were muddled and he could have woken up at any time.

He didn't know how much time had passed before he was awoken with a start. Out of the misty darkness, a hand clasped over his mouth and a dark figure swooped over him. He tried to scream, but the figure before him interrupted.

"Don't try that." He warned, and Sam was compelled to believe him. His eyes darted to the side as his hand flung out to reach his gun (which he kept on the bedside table) but he found he was smacking wood.

"I've already removed every threat to myself, your knives, your guns, even your brother." Sam's heart was racing at this point. Not only was he immediately questioning what he meant by 'he removed the threat of his brother', but he knew that voice. "You're coming with me, Sam Winchester," He said. Sam tried to struggle, but he found his head aching and swimming. He blinked heavily as his muscles got weaker and his world faded into black.

Sam awoke slowly, lights blaring in his eyes. He winced, the light burning, and his head throbbing. He tried to move, to find his skin colliding with tight rope, constricting him to a chair. He was tied up, he realized. He had to get to his senses. He looked around him, but his vision was blurry. Finally, he was able to focus on the lean, dark figure, and he knew it was the same that had kidnapped him. And as he looked up, he could see piercing through the mechanical white light two icy round points; his cold glaring eyes.

And he knew it was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

His vision grew clear as he fully woke up. He struggled against the rope, but it was thick. He winced as it touched his skin, slightly burning when he pushed hard again, like it had spikes in the middle of it. Of course. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just use normal rope.

"Hello, Sam." He said coolly.

"What do you want with me?" Sam snarled. "Where's Dean?"

"Dean's not important." He responded. "You, on the other hand are… _tremendously_ interesting." He said. A sickening grin spread across his face as he pressed his lean fingers together.

"What the Hell are you talking about?!" He demanded. Sherlock began to pace back and forth.

"You know, there haven't been many people in history who've gotten addicted to demon blood, Samuel," He said. Sam's eyes widened. "The obvious reason is that most people aren't stupid enough to _literally_ drink the blood of the enemies. You, however, seem to be different."

"How did you-" Sam began.

"I knew it as soon as I saw you," He said. "You've got the nervous ticks and agility of an addict, but when you saw me in the shadows I had started eliminating. No known stimulants have exactly that effect, and besides that, there was a little on the top of your shirt you had tried desperately to wash out. Now in a position like yours, blood stains are not odd, yet still you insisted on washing them out very similarly to how a cocaine addict washed out his pockets several times just to make sure. Conclusion: you were on a drug, a very unusual one; demon blood." He explained. "A careless, positively ridiculous decision, but I'm not going to shame you for it. It has after all provided me with a lovely opportunity." He said.

"Opportunity?" Sam asked, trying to keep his voice steady. The man smiled again, looking like an honest-to-god serial killer as the shadows crossed his face.

"For research," He said. Slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a large syringe full of a clear liquid that looked like water, but Sam knew it couldn't be. Sherlock held it in the air and smiled up at it for a moment, squirting out a small amount onto the floor. He glanced murderously back over at Sam. Sam swallowed, trying to curl away into the shadows. He shivered as the man spoke. "Let's start with the basics, shall we?"

And Sherlock was lucky he brought Sam to a place in the middle of nowhere, because there was no one around to hear his screams.


	2. Chapter 2: Gambling With Madmen

"I'm telling you Bobby, there's not a trace!" Dean said, furiously pacing back and forth in the hotel. His heart was starting to race. His brother wasn't exactly obedient, and Dean could recognize the patterns of when he ran away. This didn't match, even a little. If there was anything scarier than Sam being gone of his own free will, was Sam being gone _not_ of his own free will.

"And honestly, you were just asleep?" Bobby asked, on the other end of the phone. "I mean, you're not exactly a deep sleeper, and you're never still asleep so late as when you called me." Dean shook his head. He was right. He had just gotten up at about 10 o'clock.

"I don't know, I think I was drugged!" He responded.

"What do you mean, you _think_ you've been drugged?! You can't tell by _now_?!"

"Well, I mean, I know it wasn't natural, but it didn't feel like roofies, chloroform, anything I've ever had a nasty headache from."

"So, what'd it feel like?"

"I mean, it didn't hurt, but it kinda just felt like my dreams wouldn't give up. If that makes any sense."

"Sorta like you kept being dragged into sleep and didn't have the willpower to wake up?" Bobby suggested.

"How did you know that?" Dean asked.

"I been knocked out by that before, but only once. It's some sort of… hallucinogenic mixed with a knockout drug in some combination. There's only one guy I've ever known who knows how to make it."

"And who's that?!"

"Do I really have to give you the answer to that one?"

Dean's face went dark, and he stopped pacing. "Sherlock," He knew.

"You know it." Bobby said seriously. "And I bet you he's already used some intricate context-clues to figure out that Sam was different, and every second he's got him he's running another…" He cleared his throat for a moment, looking for the least disturbing word he could find. "Test…" He finally said. He hesitated, and his voice was dark. The way he spoke made it sound like it was the most important thing in the world.

" _You go and find him, boy."_

Without another word, Dean hung up the phone, crammed it in his pocket, and hurried out of the flat.

As he stormed out, his pace on the verge of a run, he heard something crinkle beneath his feet. He stopped, looking back. Paper… not a big shocker there, but still. He went back and picked it up, and he immediately knew what it was. A page had fallen out of Sherlock's book. The writing was neat, but quickly written and slanted in dark pencil. Tulpas, it was labeled. Curiously, Dean read ahead.

 _Tulpas_

 _Methods of killing_

 _Destroy all occurrence of the host myth - this leaves it without a form. Then, shot with iron._

 _Present a model of its current form - upon learning that it's host myth is no longer a myth but a real occurrence, it will cease to exist._

Dean's eyes widened. My God… that was brilliant. The page was small, and already, about half of it had been taken up. Still, he kept reading.

 _Present the tolpa to at least 100 people, out in the public - once a myth has been realized to be true with enough witnesses, it is no longer a myth. Left without a form. Shoot with iron._

 _Beheading - If the tolpa's myth involves a reptile, the metaphor "cut the head off the snake" still applies._

 _What, seriously?_ Dean thought. He could barely believe what he was reading

 _Cut off original thought - whoever had the original thought powers the tulpa. Erase memory (see page 35 on human hypnosis) or in more dire cases, kill the source of the original thought._

Dean swallowed. Both of those things were immensely creepy, but he didn't know which was worse. The fact that Sherlock was so casual about killing humans, or the fact that he had an entire page dedicated to how to hypnotize them and erase their memories. Both notions, however, brought him to one conclusion:

He _had_ to find Sam.

He crammed the page in his pocket and hurried out to the impala.

Quite obviously, the first thing he did, as he started driving, was call Sam. He was certain no one would pick up, but it was his first instinct. That's why he was so startled that he almost dropped his phone when a voice on the other end responded.

"Ah, Dean." It said. It wasn't Sam. No, that deep, British voice was someone he'd met more recently. "Off to rescue little Sammy, I take it?" He sounded incredibly confident and cool with this conversation, almost exasperated. It was like he knew how everything was going to play out.

"What the Hell have you done to him?" Dean snarled in response.

"Oh just a few… experiments. I haven't killed him, if you're wondering, I find that rather unnecessary. In fact, I think I'll keep him alive, just because."

Dean was a little taken aback, as he thought Sherlock was totally heartless. "You… what?"

"Mm, yes." He said. "What with his ability to exorcise things so easily, I see no harm in not killing him. Doing good for the human race, and all that. Of course, it also helps me personally. I try not to murder if I can help it… people tend not to like that and I can't do much in prison."

"Wait, what?!" Dean demanded, ignoring most of what he said. "Of course he can exorcise demons, you can too, all hunters can!"

"Yes, but I'm referring to…" Sherlock stopped in his tracks. A grin spread over his face, and even though Dean couldn't see, he could practically feel it like a shiver down his spine. "Ah." Sherlock said softly, leaning back in his chair. Dean didn't know. "On the other hand, do come over. It should play out rather interestingly. I need to get entertainment some way, you know, and the tele is ever so predictable." He said evilly.

"What?!" Dean demanded, clueless as to what he was talking about. "What the Hell are you up to, Sherlock?!"

"The address is 221B Baker Street." He said. Before Dean could say another word, he hung up the phone.

Clearly, it was a trap, Dean thought. But what other lead did he have? He tried Sam's cell again, but to no avail. So, with no other hope and Bobby;s words ringing in his head, he found where 221B Baker Street was and started off towards it.

His heart was racing as he pulled in. The drive was only twenty minutes long, but it felt like hours before he finally got to the old abandoned flat. He could see, behind the curtains, the silhouettes. They were barely visible, but he knew they were the right ones. He got out of the impala, his hand in his coat, on the trigger of his gun, and started inside.

Every step seemed like torture. Very carefully and suspiciously, he climbed the stairs, gently walked through the hall, and then, his heart racing, opened the door.

Everything was there. Against the wall, in a chair, sat Sherlock, grinning as though he were entertained. Dean looked behind him. In the corner was a shadow, but he could still see through it. It was Sam, but the way he was, he wasn't even happy to see him..

He looked weakly up at Dean, but didn't speak. His breath was heavy, his body limp, and his face a cloudy pale. Up his forearm ran linear cuts (probably seeing what metals would hurt him) and above that, the rest of his arm was practically polka-dotted with places needles had been. The other arm was hooked up to an IV, leading to a container of Dean didn't know what.

His heart dropped. He never wanted to see Sam like this. Never. He took a step forward.

"What the Hell have you done to my brother?!" He asked softly, his question sincere.

"Whatever needed doing to get the information. He's proved to be almost totally human so far, but I know, of course, there must be something different." He said.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled, fury in his eyes. He marched over to Sherlock, grabbing him up by the collar, but he didn't even flinch. His expressionless face remained the same. In a flash, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small patch, slapping it onto Dean's arm. It stuck to him, and immediately he released his coat collar and fell to the floor. He growled, trying to claw the patch off. He could feel his skin burning beneath it, like he was on fire.

"For the sake of your ignorance, I won't take the time to explain what that was. I'll just say it's an acid patch." Sherlock said coldly, dusting off his coat. "Anyway, I'm the one who kept your brother alive, you could at least show me some respect."

Dean hissed in pain, struggling to get it off. He was horrified to see his own skin coming off even more easily than the plastic it was made of. He looked up at Sherlock. "Fine." He growled. "Your terms."

Sherlock smirked. "Say please." He said smoothly.

Dean growled with fury, but he was going numb. He looked down, despising the word. "Please," He spat.

Sherlock smiled, pulling a small bottle from his coat and roughly grabbing Dean's arm. He let a single drop fall onto the edge of it, and it easily spread around the whole circle and the entire thing slipped right off. He panted, the pain slowly duling. He looked at the mark on his arm. It was like a cigar burn, but bigger and more raw. He looked up toward Sam, giving him a pitying look, (although he barely saw it or was aware of anything) and then turning with a scowl to Sherlock.

"What do you want?" Dean snarled.

"Not much," Sherlock admitted. "I did the majority of the experiments already, the most important of which is happening right now."

"What are you doing to him?"

"Well, since I found him, I have cut him with 12 different types of metal and wood, and to no effect, had several things ingested, also so far ineffective, and several things have been injected. I got a few results, but nothing shocking. Not until I began injecting him with, of all things, holy water. Thus, his current state. Interesting, I think. My guess is that he as demon blood in him, and such blood would involve demon chromatin. This would be mostly the same, aside from the ideas of certain threats. It is likely that they would see any holy liquid as a threat to the body, therefore attempting to create antibodies against it. Of course, antibodies can't fight water, and they would end up getting confused, and piling up, doing nothing. A defense is thought to have been taken up, but in truth the holy water is very slowly burning him internally. Not enough to even leave a mark, but it would make his internal body temperature," He put his hand briefly on Sam's forehead, before quickly withdrawing it and shaking it off. "Very hot. This also leaves the mind with the illusion that he is under attack, but the cells under the illusion that it's in control."

Dean stood up, looking at Sam, his eyes full of amazement and pity. He had only actually picked up a little bit of what he said, but he wasn't a big enough idiot not to figure out that Sam wasn't doing so good. "Sammy…" He whispered.

"Wake him, withdraw the needle, and see him, if you'd like. I believe he'll have something to tell you when he comes to his senses." Sherlock said coolly.

Dean didn't listen to the 'something to tell you part', but just fell to his knees in front of Sam, pulling the needle from his inner elbow. Wake him wasn't really the right term. He was awake, his eyes were open, but vacant towards the floor. He didn't really hear or see any part of his surroundings, he was focusing a lot more on what was happening internally. Dean shook his harshly by the shoulders. "Sam!" He cried, terror in his voice. Oh god, please say it was temporary. Sam didn't respond. "Sam!"

Slowly, Sam's empty eyes began to drift across the room before they weakly locked onto Dean. He swallowed. "Dean?" He said, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," Dean sighed in relief. "Yeah, Sam, it's me." He pulled Sam forward, and he collapsed weakly into his arms. Dean shut his eyes, glad he was at least alive, and somewhat responsive.

"It'll wear off," Sherlock said casually, as though it didn't really matter. "He'll wake up, and he'll be able to wash it out of his system. Then it's perfectly fine for you to take him back. I was nearly finished, but there's no point in hanging on, the rest's pretty much just logic. I've figured out a lot of things because of him. How to kill him, how to torture him, how to cure him, all that."

Dean looked up at him, with hope in his eyes. "... cure him?" He asked softly.

"Mm, yes." He said.

"How… do you…"

Before Dean could finish, a loud ringing burst out through the air. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his outside pocket (how many pockets did this guy have?) and rolled his eyes when he saw the caller ID.

"Sorry, have to get this." He said, as though he were having a casual conversation. He put the phone to his ear, leaving Dean silenced and confused.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked rapidly. He paused before he said each sentence, somebody talking on the other end. "What business is it of yours?... No, I am not- what do you want from me?... Not interested…" He creased his eyebrows in confusion. "What?... I know it's a case, you just told me-..." He stopped in his tracks, listening for a long time. For the first time, he looked truly panicked. His eyes were wide, and his hands curling slowly around his knees. His back straightened, listening intently. "How long?" His teeth clenched together, as though he were getting caught. "How?... No, I want to know, what gave it away?" He swallowed. "You're good, I won't lie." He paused. "What's the case?" he said, shifting in his seat, and seeming less panicked. "Yes… yes… But I don't know anything about them…" The person on the other end of the phone talked for a long while, and Sherlock's eyes drifted over to the two brothers. "What, seriously? _Them?"_ He asked, disbelieving. His face soon went stark again. "Yes… yes, I understand…" As he said this, he looked forward, but with a serious face, he looked back at the Winchester brothers. "Of course I know. Compassion is a weakness, yes, you think for God's sake I don't know?!" He sighed getting irritated. "Yes… where?... Do I bring them?... alright. Alright… as soon as possible." The phone call was hung up on the other end, and Sherlock slowly withdrew the phone from his ears. He stared straight forward, considering everything he'd just heard. As he leaned back, his face returned to its regular cold, but slightly more tender. It seemed like he could expect anything, but he hadn't been expecting this.

"Who was that?" Dean asked. He didn't know why he asked, he wouldn't know him anyway.

"The closest thing I have to a friend," Sherlock responded, without turning his head.

" _You_ have a _friend_?" Dean asked, rather rudely, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice at all.

"No, I said the closest thing." He responded coldly.

"And what's that?" Dean asked curiously.

Slowly, Sherlock's head turned to face Dean, his eyes stone cold, now flooding with persistence and motivation. He hesitated a long moment, the conversation still clearly running through his head. He knew that look, his life had changed. Finally he spoke.

"An enemy."


	3. Chapter 3: Introduction to Darkness

**((My apologies, I know the chapter is long. Leave a review and enjoy! I'm open for requests!))**

Sherlock refused to answer any of the questions Dean continued asking him. For the first bit of time, he sort of just stared at the wall, not even responding. His eyes flickered, even though they were motionless, blank at the wall. His thoughts passed over his eyelids as though they were nearly visible. It was like when a baby goes quiet. They can't really do, or say anything, but you can always tell when they're thinking.

Then, he very suddenly pulled his journal out from his inside pocket (seriously, how many pockets did this guy have?) and began rapidly flipping through pages, searching for something. Dean didn't really pay attention to him at all. Slowly, Sam was coming to his senses.

"So, wh-what's happening?" Sam asked, still wincing as though the dim room was incredibly bright.

"You got captured by Sherlock," Dean reminded him slowly. He told him several times, but he was still very disoriented.

"Sherlock?" Sam asked, clearly confused.

"British guy, who knew all that science and stuff," Dean reminded him.

"Um, okay…" Sam said, shutting his eyes tight and then opening them again. He was practically falling on Dean, who was gripping his brother's shoulders tightly. Sam continued in a sigh. "I get that, but why does it feel like I'm on fire?" He gasped.

Dean looked away, still blaming himself for the fact that any of this happened at all. "Yeah, well, that's the sucky part. I don't know all the science Sammy, but from all of this guy's babble I managed to pick up what was in that I.V." He looked his brother in the eyes, his face going dark. "Holy water."

Sam leaned back, recoiling both physically and emotionally, his eyes going wide. That added to his paleness, made him look like a ghost already, which made a shiver run down Dean's spine. "What?" Sam gasped. "But… why would that do anything?"

Dean shook his head. "Like I said, I'm no science geek. I think it's the demon blood from Azazil, although I don't get how it's still in your system."

Sam looked away, eyes still fairly vacant and wide. "Yeah…" He said, not elaborating.

Finally, both the brother's heads turned as the deep voice broke out of the dark. "Winchesters." He said, softly, not looking at either of them. "It seems something has come up, and I am in need of your assistance."

"No," Dean immediately replied. It barely took him two seconds to formulate an answer.

Sherlock turned his head to look at him, voice growing more firm. "I'm afraid it is quite necessary, to the good of mankind, seeing as how that's so important to you."

"I'll say it again. No." Dean repeated. Sherlock sighed softly. They just never made it easy.

"Well, I _could_ warn you that if you didn't I would kill you in a way so slow and merciless you would beg for a rope to hang yourselves with," He said, sparks of fury behind his eyes. "But threats are for savages. Let's bargain, shall we?"

"There's nothing to bargain for, Sam's gonna wash this out of his system and we're gonna leave, most likely killing you after unless I'm in a _very_ good mood." Dean positively growled. Sherlock ignored this statement, standing up and pacing.

"Let's see… you help me, and I throw in one of my full journals. An incomparable amount of information is in each and every one, and I have hundreds. It would make your job at least a hundred times more efficient."

Dean's upper lip twitched. This was torturing him. He knew he had to say no, of course, but _damn_ would that info be helpful. "No. Way." He said slowly and dangerously.

"Very well," Sherlock continued nonchalantly. "How about I throw in how to cure Sam for free?"

Dean gritted his teeth together, actually thinking on it for a moment, his heart being tugged so hard in both directions he felt like he was about to explode. Sam, the one who would usually say 'no Dean don't do it', didn't speak. He didn't know what was right, in this case.

"No…" Dean said softly, which was just about the hardest thing to say there had ever been in his life. He looked away, and Sherlock huffed, his gently evil smile vanishing.

"Fine. If you are so insistent for me to stoop so low, I shall not disappoint." He said. His eyes turned to Sam, and just as fast, his gun, emerging from his coat in the blink of an eye. "You two help me, or I kill Sam right here, right now."

Dean stood up and pulled his gun out just as rapidly as Sherlock had his. "Unless I kill you first." He threatened.

Sherlock gave him a smile that sent a chill down his spine. "You're not going to kill me." He said confidently. Dean searched frantically for some trace of fear in his eyes, but none was there.

"And why not?" Dean said furiously.

Slowly, Sherlock lowered the gun from Sam's trajectory and turned to face Dean completely. His smile dimmed, but was still there.

"Because you don't know where my information is, for one." He said. "Sure, you could get my current journal off me, but that's just a fraction of the information I have stored. But that's just a minor motivator. What it really comes down to is Sam. You know I'm not lying, when you look into my eyes, Dean. I can cure him. Wash any trace of demon blood there is out of his body. Not to mention, I can bring him back up from his current state in mere minutes, back to the full healthy man you know as your brother. I can help him in any way imaginable, and I can even help him in ways you didn't know he needed help." The mystery of this sent a shiver down Dean's spine. What the Hell was that supposed to mean? Before he could ask, Sherlock continued. "And then,  
on top of that, is me. I'm heartless, horrible, and I deserve to die in every sense of the phrase, but I'm also human. Your purpose in life is to limit the death toll you cause for as long as you can, holding back the dam of Dean Winchester's murders, making excuses for how many were really your fault, and you think you're really going to be able to stand there and pull the trigger?"

Dean went silent. His lip curled and his fists balled, his heart pounding not with adrenaline but with pure fury. He didn't want it to be, but everything he had said was right. He was the most horrible creature he'd ever met, and he wanted to kill him right now. But his trigger finger wouldn't move. Sherlock smiled, shadows crossing his face like he was a demon himself.

"I thought so," He said. "Not so abnormal, really. I find it a common pattern amongst humans to try and feel like a saint when you're really just out for yourself." Then without another thought about how he was useful, too useful to kill, Dean pulled the trigger. A loud shot cracked through the air.

Slowly, Sherlock turned his head, and looked at the wall behind him, steaming with a bullet mark three inches deep. Dean could easily make a headshot from this distance and this angle, but not here. As much as he hated to even think it to _himself_ , Sherlock was right.

The man slowly turned back around, darkness in his softly smiling face, as he looked at Dean. "Are we done?" he asked slowly and condescendingly, in a hushed voice barely above a whisper. Loathing running through his entire being, Dean slowly lowered the gun and kept it beside him, held at his side. He hated what he was doing, more than anything he'd ever done before, but he knew he had to do it.

For Sam.

He looked away into the darkness of the shadows to see his brother, his motivation. Sam looked up at him innocently, saying nothing. He still didn't know what was right, but at this point both of them knew the choice belonged to Dean.

"What…" Dean spat slowly, not looking the killer in front of him in the eyes. "Do we need to do?"

Sherlock gave very few details. He didn't seem to know many himself. And yet, he seemed completely confident about what he needed to do. Dean wanted to meet the person he talked to on the phone, his enemy as Sherlock put it. He'd want to punch him in the face.

"So, are you _actually_ going to tell us what we have to do, or are you just expecting us to follow you all around the US?" Dean asked angrily.

"No need to worry," Sherlock responded, sitting back down. "According to my enemy, you two are the best hunters you can get, so I'm sure you'll be perfectly able to handle anything we throw at you," Sherlock said, smiling to himself. Dean swallowed. He wasn't sure if he was 'able to handle anything they threw at him', but according to Sherlock's look, he was thinking that he wasn't.

"So, where are we even going?" Dean asked him.

"The White House," Sherlock said casually.

"The wh- Excuse me, the what?!" Dean demanded.

"Yes, the white house." Sherlock responded. "The current American president is with his family at Camp David, and that leaves Mycroft open to stay there." He said.

"Mycroft?" Dean asked.

"The enemy I'd mentioned."

"So what, he's just _allowed_ to stay in the white house?" Dean said, looking at him with confusion.

"He has connections." Sherlock said vaguely.

"Oh, well, yeah, cause that answers everything." Dean scoffed. "And what about Sam?"

"He'll live. Like I said, he only needs to heal for a little while. He's probably already fine enough to go."

Dean turned to Sam,looking for validation. Sam shrugged. "I'm better than I was five minutes ago, and in five more, I might be worse." He said casually. "We might as well go."

Dean looked between the two of them. He still thought it was a terrible idea, but he was clearly outnumbered. "Fine." He mumbled. "But we're taking baby!"

"Baby?" Sherlock asked.

"His car." Sam explained.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh fine, if you insist. It doesn't matter anyway."

"And _you_ sit in the back!" Dean said.

Sherlock grumbled. "Oh, well, fine," He sighed.

With an irritate scoff, Dean walked over to Sam. Carefully, he wrapped his arm around him, pulling him up. Sam winced slightly, as he tried to stand. His legs were wobbly, but he could manage. He wasn't risking letting go of Dean, though. He carefully shuffled out of the flat, most of his weight on his brother. Sherlock hurried out of the flat before them, waiting for them in the parking lot where the impala was parked.

The stairs were a bit of a struggle for Sam, but they both managed if they went slow.

"So, are you sure about this?" Sam asked through a wince.

"Of course I'm not sure about this." Dean answered obviously.

"I mean, Sherlock seems a little… I don't know, evil?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, kinda. But I think he could help us, Sammy. We push through this case, and we'll learn all sorts of things. This guy is definitely evil, but he's a genius."

"Yeah, if you- whoa!" He said. His foot slipped out from under the stair, nearly falling before Dean somehow managed to catch him (and almost dropped him as soon as he had). Sam managed to hit the stair with his foot and stable himself again.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, I'm good. Let's just get in the car." Sam said.

After a bit more time and effort, the two boys managed to reach the bottom step and see Sherlock leaning against the car. Dean growled softly. He hated seeing that evil maniac even _touching_ his baby.

"I gotta ask," He said, as a thought occurred to him. "If this… _Mycroft_ is your enemy, why are we going to see him? He threaten you or something?"

"No, he did not threaten me," Sherlock responded.

"What then?" Dean asked him.

"Mycroft and I unfortunately share a coincidental biological relation."

"A what?"

"He's my brother." His tone sort of fell, as though he were mentally rolling his eyes. He sort of sounded like a teenage girl talking about her mom. Dean laughed softly to himself.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

Dean raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Oh, nothing," He said with a shrug. "Come on, Sam," he said, and helped Sam over to the passenger seat. Sherlock came around the other end, reaching for the handle.

"Back!" Dean insisted. Sherlock backed off, putting his hands up, and swung into the back seat instead. Dean gently helped Sam get into the passenger seat then went around into the driver's seat. He hated seeing Sherlock in the rear view mirror. It was supposed to be a stupid fantasy, thinking that the person in the back seat was going to reach up and slit your throat or give you a face full of chloroform, but the thing was, Sherlock actually might.

Hopefully, he thought, he'd be _much_ farther away in the rear view mirror.

Dean put the key in the ignition and started driving. He flicked on his music, which this time was Eye Of The Tiger, but Sherlock didn't even notice. He was already shutting his eyes in the back seat, one foot propped up on the seat pushing him up against the wall. In his mind palace.

"So, Sherlock, are you actually going to explain anything, or do you just expect us to trust _you,_ of all people?" Dean waited for a response from behind him. "Sherlock?" He asked again. he peeked in the rear view mirror, to see his eyes shut, his leg up, and his fingers pressed together. "Asleep already?" he asked.

"I'm in my mind palace," Sherlock responded.

"Oh, well, of course you are, of course you have a mind palace," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "You up there being a mind-princess ruling over your freakin' mind Camelot?"

"Hush!" Sherlock responded, rather irritated. "Also, Camelot was a castle usually associated with a court, it wasn't a kingdom."

"Oh, for the love of-" Dean sighed. "Sherlock!" He said more sharply than before.

"My _god_ , your voice is _incredibly_ jarring," Sherlock said, finally opening his eyes and separating his hands. "What?"

"Are you actually going to explain anything to us, or are you just expecting us to drive all the way to the white house?"

"Turn left, up here." Sherlock told Dean, sitting up. Dean turned back to pay more attention to the highway they were on. "What? We'll be heading straight to Tennessee!"

"It's a shortcut, trust me!" Sherlock said.

"And why the Hell would I do that?!"

"Left!" Dean didn't think, the turnoff was too close for thinking, and jerked sharply to the left.

"Dean, how do we get to Virginia from here?" Sam asked, grabbing the car door as the car jerked sideways. "This exit ploughs straight on to Tennessee!"

"Another mile, then turn right." Sherlock said. "That'll keep you on Kentucky's border, which morphs into Virginia's border, at which point, you can head north."

"There isn't a road a mile north," Dean rebutted. "I've travelled these roads a hundred times."

"You ought to travel a little more carefully, then." sherlock said. He stared out the window for thirty or forty more seconds, just waiting. "There," he said finally. Dean looked ahead to see a tiny little road, hidden by trees and brush, barely even seeming to be there.

"I had always thought that was a driveway or something," Dean confessed.

"Leading to where?" Dean went silent. He was right. There was no mailbox or sign for an apartment complex or anything. It wouldn't make sense.

"You see?" Sherlock said condescendingly. "If only you tried thinking, just for a little while." he said.

"Oh, shut up!" Dean cried.

"Really, it doesn't hurt." He mocked.

"Yeah, well, neither does trying not to be a little bitch, but I don't see you-"

"Will you two cut it out?!" Sam demanded. "I'm not listening to you two bicker all the way to Virginia! I've already got a headache…"

So both of them huffed and looked in opposite directions. The rest of the drive was pretty much in silence, aside from the music playing in the background. It was a long drive, but thanks to Sherlock's secret, yet plain-sighted route, there weren't any _cars,_ much less traffic. Dean had to confess, he was an evil asshole, but he was a genius, too.

The sun was nearly setting by the time they finally made it. Dean didn't exactly know what to do, pulling up to the white house. He didn't really know where to park, obviously as he wasn't president. Sherlock, however, seemed incredibly uncomfortable with it. Dean, not knowing any better, just pulled up to the side of it. Immediately, guards were all over them. One of them, with a headset and almost the height of Sam beckoned for them to get out of the car. All three of them obeyed, Sam managing out by himself but having Dean come around and support him again moments after.

"Can I see some I.D.?" The guard said.

Sherlock pulled his wallet out of his outer pocket and showed him nothing but his driver's license. "Sherlock Holmes, and Sam and Dean Winchester. I believe Mycroft is expecting us," He said, ever so officially. Sam and Dean both gave an awkward mini-wave, while the guard examined Sherlock's wallet. Finally, he nodded. "Let them in," He told the other guards. All of them simultaneously stepped to the side, aside from one younger one in the lead. "This way," he said. sherlock followed after as though he went here every other day. Dean helped Sam alone behind, trying not to show how giddy he was about going to the white house.

The guard lead them down one fairly short hall, and then turned off to the left. At that point, he didn't go any further, as they had turned into a the room were a couple sofas and an American flag in each corner. There was a coffee table in the middle, decked out in a classy tea set, steaming with a hot batch. At the end of the off-white creamy room, a man stood facing the wall. He was decked out in a suit with nearly thinning hair, and he leaned on a cane with one foot crossed over the other.

"Sherlock and the Winchesters, sir." The young guard said.

"Thank you, Phineas. You can go," The man said. His voice was gentle, so much so it was nearly condescending. Like he was talking to his fish or something. The guard hurried out of the room, and he was fairly far gone before the man spoke again. "A good soldier, Phineas." He said. "It's a shame his fiance is already having an affair. But then again, you knew that," He turned around, looking at his brother. He had a soft smile, one of a king who could have you executed with a wave of his hand. And with the air about him on top of where they happened to be, both Dean and Sam were starting to consider if he could. "Didn't you Sherlock?" he finished.

Sherlock glared back at his brother. Older brother, both of them recognized. It wasn't hard to tell, based on the way both of them were acting. "Of course I noticed," Sherlock said. "I don't suppose you managed to figure out the person she's having an affair with is a worker at a casino they went to for their honeymoon?" He bragged.

"Actually Sherlock, he's a worker at a day spa _with_ a casino included. If you had noticed the smooth texture of the man's skin you would have figured that out quite easily." Mycroft responded. Sherlock scowled.

"I was about to mention that," He lied. But Mycroft had already moved on.

"And here they are in the flesh. The Winchesters." He said. His eyes turned to Sam and Dean. Dean shrunk back a little at the way Mycroft's eyes rolled over him, squeezing out every last bit of information. It seemed like he already knew everything there was to know about him, and there was no way for Dean to put a stop to it.

When he was done 'scanning', to put it simply, he turned to face Sam alone. "My apologies about my brother," He told him. "He can tend to be a bit… impolite, when it comes to his studies. I do hope for your sake there's no permanent damage."

Sam used all his effort to keep the question of "How the Hell can you know that?!" from bursting out of his mouth, since he knew there was no point. "Yeah," He said weakly, still totally weirded out.

Mycroft gestured to the couches around the sofa table. "Sit down, please." He said. As it sounded more like a command than a polite invite, Dean helped Sam (he was more spotting him now, Sam could walk on his own) over to the couch and Sherlock followed Mycroft and sat down. Sam and Dean sat on the side. Sherlock sat across from Mycroft. From this angle, Sam and Dean felt like it was watching a tennis match.

"So, did you find out anything important about Sam?" Mycroft asked, picking up his tea.

"Yes, a little." Sherlock said. "I've got it down in a journal, and I'll share it with you after. What we really ought to be discussing is why you brought us here in the first place."

"Ah," Mycroft replied, as though it hadn't even occurred to him. "Of course." He smiled a little wider, and leaned forward, at the same time, Sherlock leaned back.

"Let's start here: do you plan to apologize, then admit you were wrong, then admit that I'm always right of your own free will, or will I have to force it out of you?" Mycroft joked (or as close as he came to a joke).

"None of the above. I have no need to apologize for what _you_ found up and I have no intention of giving up what _I_ do." Sherlock responded.

"I should probably be angry, but I must say I'm rather impressed with you, Sherlock," Mycroft confessed, a slight smirk still on his face. "You managed to hide it from me for three whole months."

"I've been doing this for more than three months."

"I know. That's only how long you've been able to hide it from me."

Sherlock swallowed and scowled at his brother. Why hadn't he stopped him, then, he thought to himself. "You approve then?" He asked, trying to convince himself it was out of curiosity and that he didn't really care.

"You hunt monsters, Sherlock, of course I don't _approve,_ " Mycroft said. "Quite frankly I didn't approve with what you were doing before, solving crimes and all that. But I irritate you, Sherlock, and whatever I _approve_ of, you will most surely do the opposite."

Sherlock paused for a moment, his face giving nothing away. "An accurate deduction," He confessed.

"So, onto the main topic of me bringing you here," Mycroft said, leaning back again. "A knight of Hell." A shiver ran down Dean's spine. He seemed almost excited about this knight of Hell, which certainly didn't sound good.

"Yes, I've heard. Killed a few people. Why should I care?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, some of my men managed to get their hands on her. She's not dead, which we may want to attend to later, but as of now there's more important matters. What worried me was her warnings."

"Warnings?" Sherlock said.

Mycroft looked into his tea as he spoke. "In her words, 'He is rising. He will come sooner than Earth is able to prepare itself. And all will die. And this time, there will be no God to stop him.'"

"And who is 'him', may I ask?" Sherlock asked.

"You already know the answer to that." Mycroft stated.

"I know, I just don't believe it."

"I hardly could either, but I've done a little research. I won't tell you the details, but I am fully prepared to believe this knight of Hell. It seems as though he has finally broken out."

Sherlock waited for a moment, fear behind his eyes. "No, that's impossible."

"Say it aloud, so that we're all on the same page," He said slowly.

"No," He replied.

"Say it aloud," He repeated.

Sherlock swallowed. His voice went soft, barely above a whisper. "Lucifer," He said. The room was already silent, but for a moment, it got even quieter.

"What, like _Lucifer_ Lucifer?" Sam chimed in. "As in, _Satan_?!"

"The very same," Mycroft replied calmly, but he was still looking at Sherlock when he spoke. The two brothers were very intense, the both of them. It seemed as though there was a physical connection behind their eyes, and with both of their deductive powers, they could basically have a psychic link. They were speaking to each other, right now. He thought. They each can send off the signals they knew how to read. He shivered. They were barely... human.

"What do I do next?" Sherlock asked. I guess Mycroft mind-told him he couldn't tell him anymore. Or maybe he just already knew.

"All reports you give to me must be by phone call. Don't come back here again. Find somewhere that's away from civilization and summon an angel of the Lord. Look up the lore, and figure out how to keep him there, _and_ keep him from hurting you or the Winchesters. They're very valuable, and in this situation. All three of you must remain untouched for as long as possible. Once you have the angel in captivity, call me and I will give you more instruction. Keep an eye on him. You haven't had time to experiment, and you won't know how durable your trap will be. If you think it's strong enough, make it stronger. If you think you're safe enough, put up more defense. This is a situation where you really can't be too careful. Is that understood?" Mycroft spoke slowly, explaining every detail as he gently put down his tea.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"And remember," Mycroft said. The constant smile in his eyes dropped as he looked at Sherlock. "Don't be stupid, don't be careless, don't get caught."

Sherlock nodded.

"See you again, brother. Check in as soon as you have the angel." Mycroft crossed one leg over the other and his manipulative smile returned. "It was good to see you three," He said, and neither Sam nor Dean could tell if he was lying or not. "Sherlock and Sam, you're free to go. Dean, stay another moment."

Dean and Sam immediately locked eyes. Mycroft seemed to read Dean's thoughts.

"There are cameras everywhere," He said. "Sherlock lays a hand on your brother, he'll be shot on sight."

Dean wouldn't have trusted him, aside from the fact that they were in the white house and of course there were cameras everywhere. It made perfect sense, so reluctantly, he pulled his eyes away.

Sam followed Sherlock into the hall (behind him, as he was still a little unsteady) and shut the door. This left Dean alone with this smiling freak, which he was not happy about.

"So," Mycroft said gently, as though it were a casual conversation. "What do you think of my brother, from what you've seen of him?" He asked.

"Uh," Dean began, laughing sarcastically. How about totally insane psychopath? He would have blurted that, but he had to admit he was afraid to offend Mycroft, and I dunno, maybe he was touchy about his brother being insulted. "Well, not to offend you, or your brother, but he seems kind of… you know, a little-"

"Heartless? Inhuman? _Evil?"_ He asked. So much about touchy about his little brother being insulted.

"Well, yeah." Dean admitted. "Any idea how he got that way?"

Mycroft paused, some feeling flashing through his eyes but Dean couldn't tell what it was. "Sit down, Dean. Have some tea." He said.

"I'm more of a coffee man, myself," He said, now feeling really uncomfortable.

"Sit down," He repeated. Because it sounded more like a command than a request, Dean sat on the couch across from him, his figure unnaturally stiff.

"Sherlock has always been like this, Dean. Sort of, anyway."

"Sort of?"

"Well, he's never exactly been the empathetic type, but it hadn't reached this extent at any time before a particular turning point in his life." He said.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what that is?"

"We're short on time, Dean." He reasoned. "Do a little research on Sherlock Holmes, and I assure you you'll be able to understand much more than you do now. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you."

"And why was that?" Dean asked.

Mycroft hesitated, looking at the table. "You and I are not so different, Dean. I'd say, in many ways, we are very much alike."

"We… what?" Dean asked, entirely taken aback by that comment.

"The way you look at Sam," He said. "You care for him so much you'd easily die for him, but you feel as though that's not even enough. He's everything you care about, and as long as he's happy, there's nothing you wouldn't be able to endure. If you had your way, you would make everything perfect for him, then erase yourself from the world, and let him forget you forever."

Dean didn't speak, his heart now starting to race. He hadn't told anyone that, in fact, he'd barely realised it himself. He scooched away a little. _Holy shit, how the Hell did he know?!_

"Well, while I must admit it is to a lesser extent," _He's lying_ , Dean thought. "I feel the same way about Sherlock, so my request is this." He looked Dean in the eyes, actually looking genuine for the first time they'd met. "Keep an eye on him. For my sake, and for everyone else's. Sherlock is dangerous, and emotional, and he has an awfully bad habit of destroying everything he touches. It'll be bad for everyone, and most importantly, to himself." Dean hesitated a moment, mostly concerned by the fact that Mycroft considered him _emotional._

"Why should I watch over him?" Dean asked. "The only experience I have with him is watching him torture my little brother."

Mycroft smiled softly, knowing he was right. "Look him up. I believe you will learn everything you wish to know with just a little research," He told him. "Good luck, Dean. Be careful." Dean caught the drift that that was his way of saying goodbye, and he thankfully nodded and hurried out of the tense rom, leaving Mycroft sitting alone.

"What was that?" Sam asked him, as he was standing right out in the hall. Dean shrugged, mock-casually.

"I dunno," He said. "Just something about the case, probably, but I can barely understand the man."


	4. Chapter 4: Reason in Chaos

Sherlock was good. He really was.

It seemed like he knew every hotel in all of Virginia, and each one's price, and each one's pros and cons. He seemed sort of like one of those stupid spokespeople on an ad for a hotel finder. He told them each one, and finally, they chose the cheapest, which was still fairly high class (for them, anyway). I mean, it wasn't five star, but it had a pool and the whole mint-under-the-pillow vibe, and it sure was a lot less grimy.

Sam and Dean knew the deal and got a room for all three of them (making sure not to let Sherlock near the counter as they didn't really trust him with people). They went straight to sleep, or at least Sam and Dean did. They didn't know if Sherlock slept, but he was awake when they were. The more Dean looked at this guy, the less normal he seemed. Barely even human.

The next day was spent entirely doing research, each of the three men on separate laptops. Sherlock was looking up lore on angels, figuring out how to trap them. Sam was also looking up lore, but on knights of Hell, and Lucifer, and what all that Mycroft said meant. Dean, however, was looking at something different. He was doing as Mycroft said. Looking up Holmes the younger.

He barely had to look at all. He searched "Sherlock Holmes" on Google (he did a google search for God's sake) and immediately found so many fan-sites he was shocked he hadn't heard of the guy. For those who love Sherlock Holmes, All Sherlock Holmes lovers, SH Fan Site. _Sherlock Holmes Tumblr fan page._

Finally, after scrolling through the crap, he saw a yahoo ask question (and God did he feel like a loser of the research world). **who is sherlock holmes?** was the headline. He clicked on it and read the question's description.

 **ive been hearing a lot about this sherlock holmes guy, and i know he's some sort of crime solver or something… but who is he exactly and why does everyone think he's so cool? thanks.**

He scrolled down to see the voted best answer. **Sherlock is the world's only consulting detective, who takes clients who need help solving crimes,** It said. **He is famous for being extremely clever and, to some, very attractive and shipped with his partner John** (Dean winced at the thought of that) **and everyone found out about him from John's blog -** **.**

Dean admitted he had spent a little too much time on that website. It started dull, mostly with the man trying to find excuses to post something. It looked kinda like someone was forcing him to do it. For a while, he wondered if he was even in the right place looking for the right Sherlock.

Then, they got interesting.

The first thing that gave away was an entry called A Strange Meeting.

" _It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school_ (which Dean had to remember actually meant private school, damn backwards brits) _and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable."_ Well, apart from the strangely likeable part, Dean knew this was their guy. He seemed just as analytical, and well, an asshole, but not quite as cold. How did he change? What the Hell happened? He kept reading.

Anyone who's ever met him would know that if Dean was anything, he _wasn't_ a bookworm. That's why it's something of incredible significance to say that he actually kept reading of his own free will. He read one story, then he wanted to read the next. He actually felt his face get rather animated as he read cases like The Great Game and The Woman. Of course, none of this so far was helpful to the case at hand. But he was learning (the very thought of which made him confused as to whether to be proud or ashamed because he'd betrayed his stupid self).

It was fascinating, really, genuinely. He was starting to understand what Mycroft was talking about. Sherlock seemed the same, but when he was contrasted with John, they could really be dynamic. He still wanted the same information, he still cared the same amount, which was not at all, but back then, he had John to be the other side. John, who couldn't follow half of what he said, and was only there because civilian life wasn't enough, because he wanted to save people, because he wanted more. Neither of them were really healthy, he thought. It was kind of concerning when the mentally apt one out of the two was the one fresh out of the war and addicted to stress.

One of the posts was a rather major turning point. The Black-Eyed Ginger, it was called. God, Dean felt like a nerd. He even liked the titles.

It told about a 'fantastic happening', as he put it, of a girl who was friends with Mary suddenly having a change in personality. She ended up kidnapping her and calling John, telling him she would kill her if he didn't come with Sherlock. Sherlock came, but not before doing an awful lot of research, worrying John. He was totally confused when Sherlock had put a shaker of salt in his pocket. However, he was proven to be right when he poured salt across her and exorcised her then and there. Well. So much for having to adjust to the life.

The nest entries were of various other cases, with ghouls and vampires and weapons. They were somewhat different, and Dean realized it hadn't really occurred to him that different monsters were native to Britain than to America. He talked about some things he'd never even heard of.

Most of them now were cases, his and Sam's kind. Although in the middle, was a rather different one, titled One O'clock thoughts.

It was rather short, but very deep. This was what it said:

 _I told you about the case we had a few days ago. It went fine, and it was just a couple vampires. It's been worrying me ever since, though. The way he cut their heads right off was totally merciless. I mean, they were vampires, but it was almost like he enjoyed it! I guess I have to remember he just doesn't care. He just doesn't._

 _Still, the way he killed them mixed with how dangerous our job is. I could die at any time, and not to be vain, but would Sherlock be alright, I wonder? I feel like I'm the only one who ever reminds him that people are important and have feelings. I do hope he stops hunting if I die, and I know it sounds selfish, but it's true. There have been times when it actually has been more convenient to take a life than to save one, and knowing Sherlock, he'd probably take the easier choice, even if it meant killing a real, flesh and blood human._

Dean chuckled slightly at the accuracy. "Damn right," He muttered to himself. "You're a freakin' _saint,_ John Watson." He kept reading.

 _Maybe this is a little morbid. I just can't sleep tonight, I don't really know why. I'd say it's because I went out for drinks with Mike, but I didn't even get that drunk. Hm. Probably just a bad night, I suppose._

 _We think we've got a tulpa somewhere in Wales. I'll write how it folds out as soon as we see what happens._

There, it ended. Dean thought for a moment about it. He was starting to get it. Without even trying, John was doing that... thing. What did his stupid English teacher call it? Foreshadowing? Yeah, that's it.

The next few entries were more cases (including the one about the tulpas in Wales). Fascinating, as usual, but rather unimportant to what he was looking up. The last entry, at the very top, was titled, simply John. He got a bad vibe from it when he clicked the title.

 _This is Sherlock. You probably noticed the title, which is what people usually say at the beginnings of these things._

 _In case any of you are wondering, I'm not going to the funeral, because everybody would assume I would have to give the eulogy, and you probably all recall my best man speech. As death and marriage aren't exactly all that different, I assume a eulogy in person wouldn't go much better. So I'll just say it here. If anybody has any objections, I don't care._

 _John wasn't an amazing hunter. Or, even before that, he wasn't very good at deduction and continued to miss everything of importance. He had flaws, of course, and he was an idiot just like everybody else, but he didn't deserve to die. But what the Hell does that even mean? Who cares what he deserved? I didn't even really deserve a friend in the first place. And, if I am a fraction of the arrogant dick I think I am, I didn't deserve to lose him before I even had a chance to prepare myself. Life isn't fair, but when has it ever been?_

 _I've probably already screwed up this eulogy so badly it can't be saved, but all the patterns I found in the regular eulogies I watched were pointless praise to the dead. There's no point in saying these things at all, really. He can't hear me. He can't hear anything. He's a body in the morgue._

 _I most likely will never post on this blog again and will continue working cases as I have been. Because I don't have much else to do with my boringly long life span, I may as well use it to find as much information as I can. In the words of just about any idiot who's ever delivered a eulogy in all of human history, "it's what he would have wanted". Not that it matters._

 _Enjoy the funeral. I made sure it was very high quality._

Dean's eyes softened. He almost pitied the madman. He probably wouldn't have if he'd thought, but all the emotion took him by surprise. It wasn't hard to tell how broken up he was over this, how attached he was to John. From the angry swearing, to the proof of the paid-for funeral, to the momentary falter in his arrogance, to the self-awareness and the bluntness, it was hard to imagine him typing it without his eyes getting watery.

Dean checked the time in the bottom of the screen. God. It was already 4:00. He'd actually skipped lunch because he was too busy reading.

Dean repeated that to himself one more time just to make sure he wasn't demonically possessed.

 _He'd skipped lunch because he was too busy reading._

He shook his head and shut the computer. He needed some late lunch or early dinner. Dunch? Linner? Whatever, he wanted food.

"I'm getting some grub," He told Sam and Sherlock. They both mumbled in recognition as Dean stepped out the door. The hotel had a restaurant upstairs, and it was fairly cheap. He got a burger and finished it in about .2 seconds, and returned downstairs. There wasn't much else to do, and Sherlock and Sam weren't talking, so he did a little inane research on angels, nothing he didn't already know. By the time he got bored, he looked up to make sure Sam had his nose buried in his laptop and spent the rest of the night watching one of those stupid guilty-pleasure sitcoms. He barely even paid attention, really, but it was good to have the noise, and the movement on the screen. Otherwise he'd just about die of boredom.

Sam was already yawning at 8:00, and Dean looked up at him, recalling what had happened just hours before.

"You wanna get some sleep?" He asked him carefully.

"Dude, it's 8:00," He said casually, but he could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

"Yeah, and you were nearly killed today," Dean reminded him. he told him again, more as a command than a question. "Get some sleep, Sammy. I could use some too."

"But what about…" Sam began, then dwindled off. Then Sam and Dean started doing that psychic thing Sherlock and Mycroft did, but probably not to the same caliber. They knew what they were saying though.

Sam's eyes flicked briefly to Sherlock, who was curled up in the corner with his laptop on his lap. Then he looked back at Dean and raised his eyebrows. _Should we really both be asleep with him here?_

Dean nodded slightly and looked at the ground for a moment. _True._ He looked back up at Sam with assurance in his eyes. _I'll stay up a little longer, make sure he's not getting up to anything._

Sam shot him a glance, creasing his eyebrows. _Dude, he'll know something's up._

Dean smiled softly and tapped his fingers along his computer. _No he won't. I'm just doing 'research'._

Sam gave him a sort of sarcastic grimace. _It's not gonna work,_ Then a brisk nod. _But you're right, I'm exhausting. I'm gonna sleep._

A moment later he did a fake stretch, or maybe a real one, he'd be allowed, and said. "I'm gonna go to sleep, you guys. Night."

Dean nodded as though it was the first hearing of this news. "Alright," He said. Sam walked out of the living room (yeah, the hotel had a separate living room) and into the bedroom. Dean looked up, listening, and smiled. The heavy breath from the other room told him he was already asleep.

"You're learning, you two," Sherlock's cold voice spoke up from the corner.

"What?" Dean asked, turning his head. Sherlock was still looking at his computer, still reading. It was like he was talking to himself, but he knew he was talking to him.

"That was a rather intricate link, considering _your_ I.Q." He said. "Asking if I ought to be trusted with both of you asleep, you telling him you'll stay up a bit longer, Sam questioning how valid such a plan was, and you saying you were doing it for research. A lot of messages, really. Not exactly subtle, but still, I'm impressed."

A chill ran down Dean's spine, and his heart began racing. Was there anything he could hide from him? He wanted to say something like "How did you know that?" Or "That's not what we said!" But what he said surprised even him.

"How do I feel about Dad?" The question he blurted was unrelated, at the least, but he was able to make the link he was trying to tell himself. He'd never told anyone the absolute truth about that. If he knew this, there was no hiding, there was no privacy, and there were _no_ secrets. If he knew this, he was the most dangerous man on Earth.

Slowly, Sherlock shut his computer and looked up at Dean, pressing his fingertips together. He looked at him silently for a good long while to the point where Dean thought maybe he didn't know and he could relax.

"Even you're not sure," He said finally. "You feel as though you hate him, or are angry towards him. One, because Sam has shown dislike towards him. Two, because you, in truth, care about him very much and strive to impress him, even though you never will." He looked down, his gaze intensifying and his voice softening. "Because he's dead."

Dean let out a shaky breath and sat up straighter in his chair. No. It was impossible. It _wasn't possible._ Dean could cut the head off a demon without his smile falling, but this really scared him. Sherlock was a monster, and he could have any information on a silver platter. He could do anything he pleased. Destroy friendships, give enemies leads, blackmail like you couldn't imagine… he didn't even want to consider the possibilities.

"No need to be afraid of me Dean." He said.

"Why wouldn't I be, you're a fucking psychopath!" He gasped.

"Actually, it's a high functioning sociopath," He said, a dangerously gentle smile sparking across his thin lips. Dean swallowed. He had to ask him. It was stupid, but worth it.

"Are you human?" He asked him.

"In what sense?" He asked.

"The _human_ sense." He replied, fury in his eyes.

"In the biological sense, yes, I am entirely human." He said.

"And non-biologically?" Dean sneered, subconsciously making sure his gun was in his coat. "Who you are?"

"Well, those who don't know me would probably describe me as 'as inhuman as they got'," He said.

"And those who did know you?"  
"The same, only more enthusiastically," He confessed. "You are aware that I am human, Dean, even you can figure that out. No signs of being a demon, or a vampire, or a werewolf, or anything _other_ than human. But if you're asking if I'm normal, the answer is no. Nobody would call me _that._ I've half the heart and twice the mind as the average human, and it's always been that way."

"Has it?" Dean said rapidly, nearly interrupting.

Sherlock looked intently up at him, alarm and panic briefly passing over his cold blue eyes, before a wall of defense replaced it. "What?" He asked.

"Have you always been this way? Really? Nothing would have… _changed_ you, or something?" Dean tried to hide his smirk as Sherlock bit his lip. Now he had a weakness, and he's found it.

"No, that's ridiculous." He snapped. "Sociopathy is a condition from birth, and I've been exactly the same since I was old enough to speak, ask anyone. Now I recommend you get some sleep, Dean Winchester. We've got an angel to summon in the morning." His face was its usual emotionless tone, but Dean could see the furious fire behind his eyes, burning blue. It was all true, he was sure of it now. But still, he shivered. His wave of confidence was gone, and he knew it wasn't a recommendation. He was starting to get less concerned about being killed in his sleep and more concerned about being killed if he _didn't_ sleep, so he nodded and slipped away to the bedrooms. He shut the door behind him.

Sherlock, alone in the room, sighed and rubbed his temples, letting his eyes fall closed. He winced slightly, remembering. The person he was back then almost looked normal compared to who he was now. He swallowed. He didn't know how normal people dealt with this every day. Loss was stupid. Sadness was stupid. Emotions were all so _stupid_.

He curled his knees to his chest and flipped up his coat collar.

 _Show off._ The words echoed off the walls.

"Shut up, John!" He replied angrily. But the only person who responded was his own echo off the walls. He looked away, pulling his knees closer into his chest. He was alone, he remembered. Molly and Ms. Hudson and Lestrade and Anderson were all gone. John was...

Sherlock looked away. "Just shut up…" He whispered to no one in particular. And in that room he felt so small, and it honestly felt like none of this mattered at all. He recalled he hadn't slept at all last night and felt his eyes droop. He needed to sleep at some point.

So he sat there for a long time, the darkness and seas of his own nihilism wrapped around him, and waited for sleep to come.


	5. Chapter 5: An Angelic Intervention

Dean was seriously starting to question if Sherlock slept. When he awoke, (which for once was earlier than Sam), all he found was a note on the coffee table in the same sharp print that filled Sherlock's books.

 _Out to run errands. Be back by 10. SH_

Dean dropped it carelessly back on the table and rubbed his eyes. Ugh. Too early. He usually had nightmares, but they weren't bad at all last night. His dreams were weird. Something about going on some date… only it was in a… volcano, or something? Whatever. Sometimes dreams had no meaning.

He checked the time. 8:00. That was lots of time. Besides, Sam needed his sleep after today. He wouldn't wake him until 9:30, at the earliest. He went into the bathroom and splashed cool water in his face, looking up into the mirror. Off to go summon an angel with a maniac. Sounds fun, he thought sarcastically. He didn't even know if angels were real, and certainly not how to protect himself from them. But he trusted Sherlock. I mean, not in the emotional frenship sense, obviously, but because the angel could kill him too and he was a genius, he would come up with some way to stop it.

He turned out of the bathroom and stepped outside. The fresh spring air was refreshing, and you can never really be sure when the next good day would come, so just for the heck of it, and since there were no other cars in the area, he washed the impala. He really liked washing her, actually. The smell of the soap, the spray of the hose, that fresh black sheen it got after like it was brand new. Well, not _brand_ new, but not completely broken down either. When he did it, time was meaningless. He wasn't young, he wasn't old, he wasn't in the middle of something, he was just washing the impala. Like how it's always been. Like how it'll always be.

Needless to say time being meaningless meant time got away from him, and by the time he had finished, a taxi pulled up to the driveway (which nearly surprised him, as it hadn't really occurred to him that he could have taken the impala, but he could have, easily) and Sherlock stepped out, his tailcoat flapping in the april wind. He was carrying a rather large suitcase, and he was slightly bloodstained.

"You didn't take the impala." Dean identified.

"It's apparently your 'baby', it couldn't have been an act of kindness and respect?" he asked as he walked up the hotel driveway.

"No," Dean replied.

"Mm, you're right." Sherlock agreed, heading inside without him but turning to face him as he reached the door. "Honestly, I think that car is rather repulsive and I much preferred a taxi."

Dean rolled his eyes as he followed him inside. Sam was slowly rousing, rubbing his eyes and stumbling out into the living room, as Sherlock laid his suitcase out across the table.

"Slept in Samuel?" He asked, putting in the code for the locker-style lock on his suitcase.

"Hey, you have no right to bitch about it, seeing as how _you're_ the one who tortured me," He responded through a yawn. He tousled up his hair (making Dean have to bite his tongue) and stepped up with Dean to look over Sherlock's shoulder.

"What's in there?" Dean asked.

"Anything we'll need and whatever I could find." he responded. His eyes glistened with wonder as he undid the final clips and opened the case.

Inside were thick, intricate chains a deep, wavering shade of black and red, and a bottle full of a brownish-black liquid. "The bottle is holy oil from Jerusalem. If we form a ring of it and light it, he will be trapped inside, doomed to die if he touches the flame. Based off an old hebrew myth. The chains are also coated in holy oil, and are made of blessed metal, based off the myth that angels can be killed with a holy blade, that it's the only thing that can take hold of its true form. It's also coated in lamb's blood, based on another old piece of lore that angels could not go into any houses which doors have been splattered with lamb's blood. Don't worry, they're not wet. I dipped them in fast-drying liquid plastic so they could be reused. It's all logic, but it should work."  
Dean chuckled slightly. "Uh, wow." He said. "I gotta say it's impressive. How do we summon one?"

"It shouldn't take more than a basic incantation, a few sigils and a bit of blood."

Dean nodded, "Alright. Let's go!"

Dean drove, but he wasn't really in control. Sherlock was telling him every turn to take, every place to stop. They drove for a while, the houses getting more and more sparse until they were in the middle of nowhere. Finally, at (yet another) dilapidated old warehouse in the middle of the tall weeds, he told him to stop. That's where it would happen.

Inside it wasn't that dark, because of the massive hole in the ceiling casting a light down. As soon as they were inside, Sherlock was setting up. He found a chair in the corner, and brought that to the middle, creating a ring of holy oil around it. He painted a few sigils along the floor, too. Sam and Dean didn't really know what was going on until he handed them the chains.

"Now, you two stay in the dark as soon as it starts. I have a plan."

Sherlock explained quickly. It was incredibly simple, for him, anyway, but they both thought it was perfectly likely to work. It wasn't like they had any other option.

Sherlock set a wooden bowl outside of the circle, the opposite direction of the door. Dean pulled out his knife, beginning to cut into his palm.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded before he could make the cut.

"You said it needed blood!" Dean rebutted.

"You do _use_ your palm on a rather daily basis, you know. You may as well just cut off a finger."

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled the knife away from his hand. "Well, why don't you do it, then?" He said, thrusting the knife in his direction.

"Certainly," He responded. He swooped in and grabbed the knife, rolling up his thick, trench coat sleeve. He pulled up the knife and cut very carefully along the dead center of his forearm.

"The key is to sever the radial artery. Harmless, less painful," He held up his arm, and the blood easily poured. "And much more efficient than the palm."

"Yeah, no need to talk down to me, I've been doing this all my life." Dean replied angrily, but Sherlock ignored him. He let the bowl fill before he pulled a bandana out of his pocket and tied it over, barely even wincing. He rolled down his sleeve, excitement like a fire in his eyes. "Alright. Let's begin. Now I must confess, this may not work. this is an easier, safer incantation, however the angel comes of its own free will. On the occasion that it chooses not to, we may have to re-do this"

Sam and Dean nodded, then backed away, ready for the plan, as Sherlock began reading the incantation. The words of a language they didn't recognize rolled deeply off his tongue, still with a slight British accent. " _Rah ah gah ee oh es, vee nu nohno kee ah seh peh teh poh ah ma lah deh zod_."

They waited, listening for any sign. A second passed. Another. Another. Their anticipation already built up, Sam and Dean nearly jumped when the door broke open.

They couldn't tell if it had worked, because he didn't make any sort of angel entrance. He looked human. He had bright blue eyes, messy dark hair, and an intense face. He wore a suit with a sky blue tie and a beige trench coat flowing behind him. Although, the way he came, his stride long and confident, Sam and Dean almost believed it. They stayed in the shadows.

The angel approached Sherlock. Before he got the chance to speak, Sherlock stabbed him right in the chest.

However, his eyes widened with surprise as the angel reached up slowly, pulling the knife out of his chest and letting it clatter to the ground. There wasn't any visible pain at all. There wasn't even any blood. Sam and Dean shivered, hoping it would still work.

"I'm afraid, if you're trying to kill me, that's not going to work." He said. His voice was deep and gravelly.

Sherlock looked horrified for another moment, before it disappeared completely, replaced by his analytical, over-confident smirk. "I know," He said. Their que.

Sam and Dean sprung out of the shadows, each holding one end of the chain. They threw the middle over his head and pulled him back into the chair, securing the chains behind him. He struggled angrily against them for a moment, before looking up, confused.

"What is this? Release me immediately."

"Sorry, pal, can't do that," Dean said. "We need your help I'm afraid."

"But first," Sherlock said, a thrilled smile on his face. He bent over to see him better, his hands on his knees. "Look at you. An angel." Ignoring his pulling against the chains, Sherlock pulled his shirt and trench coat away to see the wound, rather high on his chest. After a moment, he pulled up his head and checked the pulse on his neck.

"Fascinating," he sighed, absolutely enthralled. "Most creatures that require vessels' hearts stop when they are killed, and they continue using the possessed human as a puppet, but you, oh, you're different. I cut right through the heart and diagonally to the pulmonary arteries, and yet your heart is still beating as though nothing has changed." His voice softened, marveling at the angel. "Arteries and veins kept in place by angelic grace alone, totally indifferent to physics and biology." Dean and Sam glanced over at each other. This was getting a little weird.

"Why have you summoned me here?" The angel growled.

"A few reasons. One, simply because I've never seen an angel before. Two, because we require your help."

"No," he replied immediately.

"Ah. Oh well." Sherlock said immediately, not really even caring.

"Dude, not 'oh well'! This is not a time for experiments!" Dean replied. "Don't we gotta call your brother?"

"Have to," Sherlock corrected. "And just give me five minutes. I won't kill him, and he's not going anywhere."

Dean growled.

"Five minutes," Sam spoke up. "But we'll be keeping an eye on you."

Dean reluctantly pulled his eyes away from Sherlock and followed Sam to another corner of the warehouse. There, they talked about what was going on and what they thought was going on as they reloaded all the weapons on their person. Sherlock, on the other hand, was using every moment with precision. This was the opportunity of his life, and he was practically giddy.

"My, my, where to even start? How about your name?" He asked, a grin across his face.

"And why would I tell you anything?"

Sherlock pulled a knife out of his jacket to answer his question. "Blessed knife. Not as good as an angel blade, but it'll probably hurt like Hell, which I doubt you're used to." He looked at it as he twirled it in his hand, before looking back up at the angel. "What is your name?"

He looked at Sherlock, then down at the knife, then back at Sherlock again. It probably wouldn't work, but he wasn't willing to risk it.

"Castiel." He answered gruffly.

"How much can I do to you, Castiel?" Sherlock asked eerily. "Without you dying? How many pieces could I cut you into? A dozen? A hundred? A _thousand?"_

Castiel scowled upward at him as he began to pace back and forth. "You cannot kill me." He answered.

"I know." He responded. "That's what's amazing about you." his voice softened with wonder. "A blank canvas I don't have to be afraid of tearing…" Slowly, he created a slash along his cheek, finding his assumption was right. It was red with blood but didn't bleed, held in place by non-existant skin. Cas hissed, still in pain.

"What are you?" Castiel growled. "Why are you doing this?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," He answered softly, not actually mentioning his species. "And I'm doing this because I want to know everything about you. What you are, how you act, and how you die."

"A scientist, then?" He asked, beginning to formulate a plan.

"You could say that." Sherlock answered, a smile crossing. He was getting it.

"Have you ever been possessed?" He asked.

"Demonically, once." Sherlock said, beginning to figure out where he was going to.

"And angelically?" Cas asked. A smile spread across Sherlock's face, his eyes bright with excitement.

"No," He answered honestly.

"A useful experiment, if you would agree." The angel said, his face still serious.

"Definitely." Sherlock said.

"I have your consent then?" He asked. Sherlock knew it was a terrible idea. He ought to call Mycroft, he ought to just save the world and get it over with. But the question overwhelmed him with desire. Unable to stop himself, he breathed the forbidden word out his crooked smile.

" _Yes."_

Dean and Sam's eyes flicked up as they saw the bright blue light. They watched as it seeped from the angel's sky eyes into Sherlock's cold, icy ones. They leapt up.

"Hey!" Dean barked. But it was already done. The now empty body with dark hair and a beige trench coat fell limp and dead in the chair and Sherlock's face was monotone. He leaned up slowly. But it wasn't Sherlock. It was someone different entirely. His pose was straighter and his eyes less reading as they looked around the room. Warmer, too. This wasn't the same psychopath, it was an angel in the body of Sherlock Holmes.

Slowly the angel rotated his head back and forth, stretching its neck, then reached out his hand. Slowly, his thin pale fingers unfolded and rolled back into a fist as the angel looked forward, the determination of an unquestioning soldier in his eyes.

He looked down at his previous form with something between pity and disgust for a moment. He reached into his limp sleeve and pulled out a thin blade, slipping it up into his own sleeve.

Dean and Sam stood awed for a moment. Dean was the first to make a move. He reached rapidly into his jacket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on and threw it forward.

Immediately it caught. The ring of holy oil Sherlock had set down illuminated in a flickering golden fire, surrounding Sherlock. He attempted to back away, in shock, but was soon surrounded by the ring of fire. Dean smirked as he looked around him in alarm and anger. Got him.

The angel scowled. "I was considering sparing you, but I find that more and more unlikely," he growled. His voice was different, too. Less manipulative, more set in stone.

"I'm sorry, but we really do need you. Just hear us out." Dean said.

"What could possibly be this important?" He asked them.

Sam and Dean looked at each other, wondering who was going to say it first. Sam nodded at him to do it. Dean turned back to the angel, a grave look on his face.

"Lucifer." He said softly. The angel didn't react in a way that was over-the-top, but it didn't take Sherlock to figure out he was horrified. His eyes widened and his fingers slowly curled. His head shook.

"Lucifer has been locked up for thousands of years," He denied.

"Yeah, well, we interviewed a knight of Hell, and-"

"The knight of Hell was on _Earth?_ " He asked, even more shocked.

"Yes. And it said that Lucifer would rise."

The angel didn't speak, looking around at the ground, with thought in his eyes. "I have to report this to heaven immediately-"

"Now, hold on just a second. A couple things first. One, we need Sherlock. He can help us, so we can't have you walking around wearing him."

The angel paused. "First, who are you?" He asked.

"I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam," Dean said, gesturing to himself then to his brother in turn. Sam nodded.

"Listen, It's a bad first impression, I know," Sam told him, kindness in his eyes. "But we're not your enemy! We just want to make sure that Lucifer doesn't rise, like I'm sure you do too."

"So, you're asking me to trust you?" He asked, disbelieving.

Sam shrugged. "A lot, I know, but genuinely, we need your help," He said. "Besides, we can't hurt you with anything we've got, so there's no point in running off."

"And why shouldn't I just kill you all now, then report this to heaven?"

Sam didn't answer. Dean looked at him, waiting for something in hope. Honestly, there was no reason why he couldn't. And why he couldn't report them to heaven? Mycroft needed… something. Quite frankly, Sam was stuck.

The angel nodded at that. He looked back at his old body, a brilliant blue light shimmering over his eyes combined with the flickering orange of the flame in front of him. "Put out the holy fire." He commanded.

Dean looked at Sam, who seemed to know what to do. Sam nodded, and the both of them stomped out the fire until it was all the way gone. The angel stared at the body. He placed his hand on its cheek, and his eyes went blue. The light seeped from Sherlock's eyes to the other man's. It was amazing to see them light up, from off to on, from asleep to awake, from dead to alive.

When the blue stream ended, the man was sitting, living in the chair and Sherlock fell gasping to the ground, his eyes wide. Dean raced over to him.

"Sherlock, are you alright?!" He demanded.

"What's my blood pressure?" He panted to himself. He pressed his thumb along his wrist, feeling his heart beating rapidly. He winced, his head killing him. He patted his jacket and managed to fish out another black leather journal, with fresh new pages. He pulled out a pencil and started writing before he could even catch his breath.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, stepping back.

"Angel possession," Sherlock panted. "I need to record every detail while I still can."

"You need to call Mycroft." Dean told him

Sherlock scowled at him, but he was right. He pulled his phone out of his coat. He caught his breath as it rang, rubbing his temples. It wasn't pleasant, being the vessel of an angel, but it was so worth it. Just to know the information.

"Found the angel?" Mycroft asked from the other side of the phone.

"Yes," Sherlock answered as he stood up.

"You're out of breath. Why?" he asked.

"I'm not out of breath." Sherlock lied.

"Yes, you are, and you're lying about it, too. What did you do, Sherlock?"  
"An experiment."

"Specifically?"

"Angelic possession. I had to know what it was like." He grumbled.

"Oh, brother mine, you are so incredibly stupid sometimes," Mycroft sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "What part of 'safety' did you not understand?"

"It doesn't matter, I'm alive, aren't I?"

"This time, you are. But if my predictions are correct, and they typically are, the path gets harder from here. If you'd like to survive the _week,_ at least, Sherlock, I highly suggest you be more careful."

"Very well…" He grumbled. He did it to end the brotherly conversation, not that he actually intended to stop doing things his own way. "What do I need to do next?"  
"Find out what the angel knows, by any means necessary. But no permanent damage and, really this time, be _careful."_

"Fine." Sherlock answered. He hung up the phone and stuck it back in his coat. He turned to the angel.

"He says to get information. By _any_ means necessary." He found the angel blade was still in his sleeve and let it drop, looking at it as he caught it. Castiel's eyes widened with visible fear. Slowly, he raised the knife.

"Sherlock." Dean stopped him. Strangely enough, he didn't shout. He said it softly, a gentle warning. _Keep an eye on him._ Mycroft's words rang in his head. _For my sake, and for everyone else's. Sherlock is dangerous, and emotional, and he has an awfully bad habit of destroying everything he touches. It'll be bad for everyone, and most importantly, for himself._ Dean's face remained stark. He began to see some meaning to this enigmatic comment.

Sherlock turned to face him.

"We talk, _then_ torture," Dean insisted. "We do want him on our _side._ "

Sherlock sighed, lowering his arm. He looked at the angel, disappointed. "Fine," He said. He took a step back.

"Well, I'm not gonna turn this into a chick flick, but the truth is, we're not gonna be able to help each other…" He bit his lip, knowing this was stupid. He held out his hand to Sherlock. "The knife."

"What?" He demanded.

"Dude, the knife!"

"Why?"

"I've got a plan!"  
"And I'm supposed to trust your imbecilic plan?"

"Just… trust me, will ya?" Dean said. Sherlock rolled his eyes and handed him the knife by the hilt. Dean kept it close as he went around the back of the chair. He undid the chains.

"Dean, what are you doing?!" Sam demanded.

"Trust me!" He replied. He loosened the chains, he let them fall to the floor, but he kept them tied. They formed a ring around the floor. The angel could stand and be more comfortable, but he wouldn't be able to leave the ring.

He went back around and held the blade by the dull end, handing the angel the hilt. Before he could take it, he pulled it back slightly. " _Don't_ stab me," He told him, then offered it again. His heart was racing. This was a horrible idea. The angel took the knife and slid it back up into his sleeve.

Dean stepped back. "There. Now we can't hurt you and, hopefully, you can't hurt us. Now we just wanna talk."

"I _have_ to report this to heaven," He said.

"Yeah, okay." He said, ignoring that statement. "Let's start here: what's your name?"  
"His name is Castiel," Sherlock interjected.

"Alright," Dean said. "Castiel, huh? Okay. What do you know about Lucifer?"

Sam looked at his brother. It was rather shocking, what he was doing. He was usually the soldier, not the diplomat. What happened to shoot first, ask questions later? He was actually being smart. But… trustful. He had to confess, he wondered why.

The angel was silent for a moment. "Only that he can't be escaping." he said finally. "He's been locked in that cage for thousands of years. Why would he be able to get out _now?_ " Sherlock already had a notepad out, taking down what he was saying.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know." He confessed. "Do you know anything about knights of Hell?"

Castiel nodded. "Yes, you… mentioned they were on Earth."

"Yes." Sam responded.

"They are… specialized demons, in a way. Chosen specifically by Lucifer to carry out his will. With no orders from Lucifer, they never roam the Earth. They are extremely dangerous. The only way they can be killed is with someone withholding the mark of Cain wielding the first blade, which is a power that hasn't been released on Earth for just along the same time Lucifer has been in the cage." He hesitated. "How can you be so sure he is rising?"

"We're _not_ sure." Sam said.

"Yes, we are." Sherlock said. "My brother is convinced, and while he is completely obnoxious he's also extremely intelligent, maybe even more so than me. Lucifer _will_ rise unless we stop him."

Castiel swallowed. "Well, as far as information, that's about all I know. Lucifer has been caged since before I was born, and nobody even speaks his name in heaven. Why did you need all this, anyway?"

Sam shrugged and shook his head. Dean interjected and told him "We don't really know. We're sort of helping out a higher up."

"Who?" He asked, out of curiosity.

"Guy named Mycroft," Dean responded.

"As in, Mycroft _Holmes_?" He asked, seeming surprised.

"Uh… yeah." Dean said, confused. "You know him?" A spark of anger flickered behind the angel's eyes and his lip curled into a sneer.

"Everyone does. He's basically ninety percent of Heaven's government." he growled.

"Oh, of _course_ he is." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I swear, I will _pay_ you if you find a place my brother has been to that he hasn't taken over."

"Least he hasn't got Earth," Dean chuckled sarcastically.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock admitted, not looking at him. Dean raised his eyebrows. Well.

"So, that's everything you know?" Dean asked.

"Everything of importance," He responded.

"Well, thanks," Dean said genuinely. he turned to Sherlock. "Let's make the call."

"On it," Sherlock said. His phone was already out.

"Done so soon?" Mycroft asked.

"He didn't know much," Sherlock told him.

"Just out of curiosity, who did you get when you did the angel summoning?"

"Castiel," He answered.

"Oh, well, he wouldn't know, would he?" He asked rhetorically

"And why's that?"  
"He's barely older than a teenager, he wouldn't remember anything about Lucifer's antics. He's been in the cage his whole life and several thousand years previously."

"Ah, yes. I suppose that would leave him with little information. He _did,_ however, say you were ninety percent of Heaven's government."

"Now, ninety is a bit of an overstatement." He confessed. "But onto more important matters, brother mine. Are you going to tell me the information?"  
"Why would I tell you over the phone, you of all people know the calls are monitored."

"Trust me, Sherlock, it's easier this way."

"Why can't I just come see you? What happened to safe?"

"Stop asking questions, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped a little too quickly. "What did Castiel say?"

Sherlock hesitated. "Hang on a moment. I have to call you back."

"Sherlock-" but he was cut off as the phone was hung up. Sherlock stuffed the phone in his pocket and put away the notepad.

"We have to go." He said.

"What? Why?" Sam asked.

"Something's wrong," Sherlock said certainly. "Mycroft is in danger, we need to return to the white house."

"We can't just go!" Dean said. "He'll run off!"  
"Fine, then I will," Sherlock said, adjusting his coat and starting out the door. Dean and Sam looked at each other. Sam looked at Cas. _We can't trust him alone._ Dean looked frantically over at Sherlock. _We can't trust him alone either._

They both gave each other a conflicted look, before they knew they'd have to split up. "I'll take Sherlock," Sam said finally.

"Okay," Dean agreed.

Sherlock ran off after Sherlock, who was heading out to the impala. He had nearly taken off by the time Sam reached the car. He had to close the door as the car was moving. That left Dean alone with the angel. They looked at each other for a moment, awkwardness in the air. Finally, Dean just briskly nodded and went over to the wall beside him. He sat down, his back against it, and cleaned out his gun because he had nothing better to do. There they sat in silence, as Sherlock and Sam drove back to the whitehouse. Neither of them spoke, Sherlock going way too fast and across deserted roads until they finally arrived.


	6. Chapter 6: The Final Checkmate

They pulled up and screeched to a halt. Guards surrounded them, but Sherlock just showed his driver's license briefly to them and stormed in. Sam apologized for him and followed after.

"Wait out here," Sherlock commanded Sam. Sam didn't question it as Sherlock raced inside. He remembered the hall. he remembered the room. His shoes pounded against the floor and his trench coat flapped behind him as he ran to where Mycroft was, expecting the worst.

He skidded to a halt. Mycroft stood in the middle of the room, unmoving, silent. His stance was uneasy and he swayed as though he were ill, and on his face was a look of distress and pain. "Sherlock…" He said, barely above a whisper. "I told you not to come…"

His eyes shut and he fell forward.

Sherlock raced up to him, catching his chest with his hand. The off-white of the room seemed intrusive and overwhelming, and he could barely tell what was happening. He felt his hand pressing against Mycroft's chest get hot and wet, and he pulled it away to see it was soaked in red. He stepped away, appalled, and his brother slipped through his fingers like sand, falling to the floor. He backed away. the room was spinning. His heart was pounding. His brother was dead.

"Hello, Sherlock," A voice said. Sherlock's eyes flicked around the room until he found the source of the voice. It was the phone. Just a voicemail, but he was sure he knew that voice.

"Aw man, sucks right? Although, then again, he _did_ tell you not to visit him. You really should have listened to big brother Mikey!" the man on the voice said through the phone. He laughed. "Anyway. I'm sorry I had to kill your brother, but you see, it did have _meaning_ Sherlock. See it how you will, an artist should never explain his art. It could represent something like the eternal pursuit of life, doomed to fail. Admittedly, though, it does have a more literal, specific meaning, so much so, it could be called a message." His cheerful, fluctuating voice suddenly got low and serious. "Stop looking for Lucifer. You can't stop him. It's already over. You leave this problem be and _maybe_ , if I am in a very very good mood, I'll let you die quickly." His voice changed back immediately, and the words bounced around in Sherlock's head. "That's all! Oh, wait no, sorry, not quite. Um… what else, ugh it's on the tip of my tongue… Oh, right! I probably ought to tell you that as soon as this message ends, a 30 second countdown will start and then a bomb put into the phone will go off and blow up the white house. Just thought I should mention. Okay, I'm nearly done. Just one more teensy thing you may want to do Sherlock. Well, two, actually. Number one: Look up."

Sherlock found himself unable to disobey, especially since a sticky, lukewarm liquid was dripping onto his cheek. He knew it already. Blood.

His eyes widened, horrified, as he saw four words written ten words across, using red, hot, dripping blood as ink.

 _Did you miss me?_

Before Sherlock had time to contemplate, the voice continued onto his second message. "Number two: _run."_

Sherlock didn't question it. He darted out of the room, hearing automated voice on the phone say "message ended." Again, his feet thudded across the floor as he ran out. He grabbed Sam by the shirt when he met him outside.

"What's happening? Where's Mycroft?!" He demanded.

"Dead!" Sherlock responded.

"What?!"

"Come on, we have to run!"  
Back at the warehouse, Dean was still cleaning out his gun. Suddenly, he heard a loud clatter behind him. His eyes flicked up to see the chair tipped over, and crossed over the chains, empty. Castiel was nowhere in sight. He sat rapidly up.

"Castiel?!" He shouted. "Castiel?!"

Sam didn't question what Sherlock had to say, and followed immediately behind, both of them sprinting away. Sherlock had been counting subconsciously. 30 seconds. The timer was always 30 seconds.

He swallowed as he nearly ran out of time. _10, 9, 8._

 _Not fast enough, not far enough away!_

 _7, 6, 5._

 _No, it couldn't be too late! No!_

 _4, 3, 2…_

 _No…_

A crash set off behind him, a force pushed him forward, and everything went black.

-TO BE CONTINUED-

((Short chapter, I know, sorry, but I figured it was the best possible place to leave off. Please review if you enjoyed, and I'll post the next part after a bit!))


	7. Chapter 7: Judge, Jury, and Criminal

((Hello, I have finally returned! Thank you for your patience. I have actually just taken a vacation across the country and I figured after returning would be a good time to come back to this fic, one of the most major I've ever written. Glad to be back! Enjoy!))

The gavel banged against the desk.

"We are gathered here to discuss the case of Sherlock Holmes, charged with murder of the second degree,"

Sherlock opened his eyes.

He found himself in a large courtroom, at the table for the accused. He looked around him. Nobody sat in the seats behind him, and the room was mostly silent. Only a few people were in the jury, and he could see as he looked closer that the jury was very badly made as he knew everybody there.

The first person he noticed was Sally in the front seat. She was slouched in the front, uninterested in his case, her eyes on the phone in front of her. Every moment or so, she'd tap something on her phone, making a rather loud beeping noise. It was incredibly rhythmic, monotone, and obnoxious.

The second people he noticed were in the back row, Molly and Ms. Hudson. They were turned to each other, both of them softly talking, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.

The next person he noticed was LeStrade in the front row. He was watching over the whole room, waiting for what was going to happen. His hand tapped against the wooden armrest of his chair.

His eyes drifted just in front of him as he noticed the judge, decked out in robes. He knew who it was, with a gentle, horrible smile. Moriarty. He shivered, but he didn't move.

The final person he noticed was standing right beside him. His heart sank as he saw him stand. John Watson. Testifying, defending him as always. He quite honestly wanted to stand up and ask him a thousand questions, but he remained seated. He couldn't move. He tried, shifting his arm slightly, but he winced to feel a pinpoint stabbing just along his inner elbow. He looked down to see a nail sticking out of the arm of the chair. Still, though, he didn't move.

"John Watson," Judge Moriarty said slyly. "Would you like to call your first witness, or perhaps, show some evidence? Do anything you like, I'm not even really sure how this works."

John nodded. "Yes, I believe I would, yes." He said. Sherlock swallowed. He didn't know how to feel about hearing his voice again. "I call the victim himself, Mycroft Holmes to the stand," He said.

Sherlock was about to question how that would work, but by the time he blinked, Mycroft was sitting at the witness stand. His skin was pale, his eyes sullen, and there was a large red blotch on the front of his shirt. Other than being dead, however, he seemed fine.

John stepped out from behind the table and stood in front of the witness. "Mycroft Holmes," He addressed. "Permit me to ask, was Sherlock the one to stab you?"

Mycroft shook his head. "He did not."

"And did he organize your murder?"

"He did not."

"So…" He began to pace back and forth, slowly getting more confident. "In what way could this be murder of the _second_ degree?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I could list several ways, however, none of which have a likelihood anything over one percent."

Well, that was one way to defend your own brother.

"I say that Sherlock was totally unaware of what he was doing. He is not a killer." John said. "And yes, he was told not to come, but he did not disobey to commit a murder, but to make sure his brother was not in danger." Sherlock sighed in relief. John always knew.

"However," judge Moriarty said. "He was told specifically not to come, and Mycroft would not have been killed were he not there. Doesn't that clearly display an intention of harm towards his brother!"  
"No, definitely not! It was manslaughter, at the very most!" John argued, beginning to get rather animated. "He may have come but his intentions were good!"

"Well, you know what they say about that, Mr. Watson." Moriarty said, a twisted smile spreading across his face.

"The road to _Hell_ is paved with good intentions."

Suddenly, the chair and ground beneath Sherlock fell away and he was falling a hundred miles per hour through the air. He reached for the light of the courtroom above him as the world around him got darker and darker and hotter and hotter, encasing him in ragged stone. Hell.

The ground beneath him was was getting hotter, spraying up and burning holes in his trench coat. He managed to grab the wall to either side of him, his feet pressed against one and his scraped up hands against the other. But it was still too close. His entire back was burning, his trenchcoat dipping in the lava and setting on fire. He screamed as it bubbled over and burned into his skin. Even though he felt he was miles away from the court, he could hear the noises from the jury even louder in his ears as his back was set on fire.

Lestrade's tapping.

Sally's phone beeping.

Molly and Ms. Hudson talking.

 _Tap, tap._

 _Beep. Beep._

" _I think he's started waking up, yes, he's coming to…"_

He opened his eyes.

No Hell.

No lava.

No jury.

No courtroom.

No judge.

Unfortunately, No John or Mycroft either.

The room around him was white, and after a few clues he was able to recognize it as a hospital. It all fit together, all the sounds he heard were still there, just misinterpreted.

Sally's phone, a giant screen monitoring his heart.

Lestrade tapping, the footsteps on the floor.

Ms. Hudson and Molly talking, the nurses in the background.

The nail in the chair an I.V. in his arm.

But as soon as all this ran through his head, he winced in pain, as he found another thing had a source. The burning. The Hell.

He hissed through his teeth, trying to sit up, to get the pressure off the burns. "What is this?" He hissed, because he knew someone was talking someone was in the room. He looked up to see a nurse, with blonde hair and trustworthy blue eyes.

"You were in close range with a large explosion. I'm afraid you've been covered in third degree burns, and we've turned up the morphine to as high as it can be."

Sherlock panted, trying to get his back up off the bed. "Dammit…" He hissed.

"We _are_ allowed to give you an anesthetic, if you-"

"No, no anesthetic," He responded. "Moriarty, where is he?" He asked, somewhat deliriously.

"We don't know anyone named that. We do need to ask, however, did you have any relation to one Sam Winchester?"

"Co-worker…" He answered, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head before he looked back up. "Why? Is he dead?"

"We're not sure of anything yet." She responded vaguely.

Sherlock nodded, almost a bit worried. I mean, he didn't like Sam, but he was valuable for research. He didn't want him dead. The nurse beside him removed the I.V. from his arm and took his blood sample.

"I have to test this," She told him. "Feel free to get some rest." And with that, she took the blood sample and left.

If there was anything Sherlock was going to do, it _wasn't_ get some rest. He tried to sit up once, but failed due to the aching in his back. He tried a second time. Nope. Finally, he got up as much momentum as he could and tried a final time, managing to sit up. He looked around his surroundings. Hospital, in Virginia. 8:00 at night. He could have figured out several other things, but they weren't important at this moment. He rubbed his eyes, trying to think of what happened. The words rang in his head the explosion before.

 _Stop looking for Lucifer,_ they rang, as he recalled the burning heat in his eyes. _You can't stop him. It's already over._

He shook his head and threw his legs over the side of the bed, carefully standing up. The room was bright, and the outside was getting dark. This effect made the window look like a black tinted mirror, which he stepped in front of. He saw he was still in his white, button-up shirt, but his jacket and trench coat were gone. It was probably too soon and too urgent for them to have changed him into hospital clothes. He looked himself over. His face was clearly tired and rather greasy, but he hadn't started growing stubble. He estimated he must have been out for at least 12 hours, give or take a few. He saw about halfway down the right side of his neck a long, dark tendril begin. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and pulled down the corner with a wince. The long strip of red ran down his neck, leading into his shoulder. Giving it up altogether, he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt and looked down at his chest. On all sides of his chest, over his shoulders, around his neck were long red stripes of burnt scars as though vines were growing around him, pulling him in. He could still feel the long tendrils of the toxic fire wrapping around his back and his arms and his chest. He winced at the very echo of the pain.

He pulled off the rest of his shirt and threw it to the ground, turning rapidly around. His eyes widened as he peered at the reflection behind him. He thought his chest was badly burnt, but his entire back was deep red, a few spots still bleeding. The long burn spread from under his pants up to the top of his neck, all across his shoulders and bleeding into his chest. He turned back around and looked even closer, shocked to see the deep red reaching even up into his jawbones, which he hadn't noticed before. He sighed in both pain and exasperation, looking at himself in the mirror. He still looked like the fire was there, just behind him, pulling him back, refusing to let him go. He looked away. He didn't want to spend the night in the hospital.

Carefully, slowly, he bent over and picked his shirt up off the ground, pulling it back over him and buttoning it back up.

It took some effort, as any sort of moving cause immense pain, so as he went up, button by button, he began to think.

He remembered that it was easier to worry if you didn't list the things to worry about and often times you would overestimate or underestimate. So he made a list. Of everything important.

1: He was alive.

He was practically deep fried, but he was still alive. There wasn't much else to say on that topic, really. He didn't know whether to be glad or not, but it wasn't important. He _was alive:_ that was a fact.

2: Mycroft was dead.

He didn't know how to feel about this one either. Mycroft was his brother, but an irritating, neglecting one. His emotions were numb and mixed up, but like he said, his emotions weren't what was important. The fact was Mycroft had a knife through his heart, and after, he was at the heart of an explosion. No way had he survived.

3: Moriarty was back.

That voicemail couldn't have been old, and it played at exactly the right time he knew it. Sherlock shivered at the thought of the hot blood across the ceiling. Did you miss me. Iconic, particular, specific. It couldn't have been anyone else.

Those were the facts, or at least, the important ones. They were all immense and barely credible, but still, his face was totally emotionless. Not like he was hiding, but he was truly feeling nothing. He wasn't sad. He wasn't happy. He wasn't even scared.

But he did know the facts added up to one thing in particular, that the burns that ran long across his skin helped to represent.

Everything had changed.


	8. Chapter 8: Hospital Letters

-Heaven's Talent, Satan's Heart: The Return-

It was May 15th. The time was 9:34 and thirty-two seconds. The place was George Washington University Hospital.

It must have been around 50 or 55 degrees, and a gentle wind carried the scent of freshly cut grass. The stars poked gentle pinpoint holes in the silk fabric of the night, the moon looming overhead like an angel. The wind caressed the wind-chime trees, leaves softly whispering to themselves, brushing over the short, lime grass, swaying it softly. The air was crisp and dry and smelled like soap and grass. The long, black and yellow parking lot stretched out ahead, rolling like ebony hills. The window to the hospital was carelessly thrown open, the lilac curtains chasing the whistling wind. And between the grass and trees and wind stood a figure, blending darkly with the night around him. His hair and shirt caught the breeze like everything else out in the open. He stood alone, his off-white button down shirt falling gently around his slender figure. His face still as the stone building before him, red lines growing up his neck like ivy. He stood there for a while, just outside his room. Just thinking.

Sherlock didn't know why he went outside at all, really. He could have done anything he had wanted inside. But there was something about the crisp air outside that seemed to help his mind. It wasn't the same as back at Baker Street, though. The smell was different. The feel was different.

He had almost forgotten about Baker Street, really. Forgotten he'd ever had a home at all.

Slowly, he lifted the phone to his ear. It rang. _This is pointless,_ he thought. It rang again. _This is stupid,_ he told himself. _This is outrageous,_ he argued. It rang once more.

" _I'm sorry, this number is not available. At the tone, please record your message."_ Said the automated voice.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "It's Sherlock. Listen, I'm aware you have plans, but we don't have time for them, alright? I need to report. It's Moriarty. He knows about Lucifer. Something big is happening, and you never got to explain anything. Look, you're a huge jerk, but I need you. Not just for information, but for…" He stopped there, and even though there was no point, he added, "Just, call back Mycroft. Please."

He hung up. Immediately, he pressed another contact. Another pointless call.

The three rings passed ever so slowly, the same thoughts running through his head. This one wasn't as stupid, but it wasn't as though he'd have his phone on him.

" _Sorry, I can't come to the phone right now,_ " Answered Sam on the answering machine. " _You must know what to do."_

"Hello, Sam, it's Sherlock." He said coldly. "If you're not dead, please call back. It turns out my stupid brother was right. Lucifer is coming. And… if it's possible we may have even bigger fish to fry. Unless your arm is literally too badly burned for you to move, call me back." And then he hung up.

And this time, he hesitated before he made the call. He just stared at his phone, and the thoughts that passed through his head weren't in words but in shades of mournful violet and guilty blue. Finally, he pressed the contact.

He was yelling at himself not to do this as the phone rang once, twice, three times. Finally, the automated voice responded.

" _I'm sorry, this number is not available. At the tone, please record your message."_ The beep sounded. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and his stomach churned.

"Hey," He greeted casually, looking to the ground. "It's me again. Look, I found a case. It's the devil himself, _very_ not boring. Very dangerous, though. Mycroft is already dead, thanks to me. I didn't mean it, but you'd obviously know that because you're…" He stopped, leaving that thought behind. "Anyway. I met the Winchesters. They've both got the moral compass of a bloody saint. It's rather annoying, actually. They barely let me do anything…"

He bit his lip. "So um… things are fine. Mary misses you, I assume, but we haven't really talked. I've… killed less people. I know you'd… tell me that was no excuse and be shocked that I didn't care, but I still don't. In fact, you'd be surprised how little I care. It seems nice, sometimes, being people, empathetic and able to avoid bad choices just because of a primal instinct I was born without." he paused. "I want to, you know. I haven't been able to since…" He swallowed. "Call me back, John," He whispered. "As soon as you can."

Without really thinking of escape tactics or strategies, he started walking down the road. What were they gonna do if they caught him, heal him some more?

Everything hurt to move, so he wasn't exactly fast. The burns didn't so much… burn anymore. In fact, through his rather thin shirt in this rather chilly night, he was quite cool. But they ached, and he knew they would for a long time.

He must have walked for about a quarter mile, before something caught his eye.

He wasn't really sure why he was suddenly so interested in the closed thrift shop on the other side of the street. But he did know he didn't like the button down, on its own, anyway. He looked around. No cars, no pedestrians.

For a moment he evaluated his choices. _It's hardly worth it,_ one part of him said. _Getting caught would be difficult and tedious, and what for? You're really worrying about something so stupid when there's so much else to think about?_

But then there was that other part of him, that was telling him otherwise, that was spreading a confident, eager grin across his face, and telling himself _You've been 'thinking' for 99% of your life. Your brother just died, your life is a disaster, and Satan is literally about to rise up out of Hell. Why think about any of that and just bring yourself back down again? No, right now, I don't want to think. Or deduce. Or consider any consequences or benefits of my actions or anything._

 _Right now, I want a new trench coat._

Based off that outrageous thought alone, he stepped into the empty street with a smile on his face, feeling like he was the king of the world. He'd just survived an explosion. Even he had to admit, that was pretty cool. He swept up to the door and easily picked the lock and jimmied it open; he didn't even need a paperclip. No one was inside.

He took what he wanted, and he knew exactly what he did want. When he was finished, he put it all on and stood in front of the mirror in the changing room.

He grinned at the result. The long trench coat swooped around him like the night sky folding down, its fabric new and clear. The jacket beneath was practically shimmering, and tight-fitted perfectly around his waist. He even found a copy of the blue silk scarf he used to wear and tucked it into his jacket.

He straightened the sides of his jacket, and ruffled up his curly black hair.

"I'd love to stay longer," He told his reflection in the mirror, seeing his own blue eyes sparkling with excitement. "But I'm afraid the game is on!"

As Sherlock left the shop, he already found he was feeling much better with his trench coat flapping behind him like a cape. He stepped back out into the crisp air, now far less melancholy. As he stood on the opposite side of the road, he heard his phone ring, which he had put in his new pocket. He checked the caller I.D. Ah. So Sam _wasn't_ dead. I mean, unless someone else was using his phone, but that was unlikely.

"So you _aren't_ dead," He greeted bluntly.

"Uh, not quite…" He heard the other side of the phone respond. It was, indeed, Sam, but he sounded very weak and tired. If he remembered properly, he was more taken aback, and therefore was running behind Sherlock, and therefore closer to the explosion. He was probably even worse off. "I'd still like to know what happened," Sam continued. "I mean you kind of just told me to run and then a couple seconds later the damn white house blew up."

"In due time, Sam," Sherlock responded. Sam didn't seem that hung up over it, and he immediately moved on.

"You mentioned bigger fish to fry," he said. "What could _possibly_ be bigger than _Lucifer?"_

"An old enemy," Sherlock responded.

"Human?"  
"I'm not so sure, as of now," He responded. "But if you're asking if he's ordinary, the answer is most certainly no. His power and apathy are approximately matched with mine, only, while I don't feel the need to and would go so far to say I don't _like_ taking lives and committing crimes, I believe he has found himself addicted to it."

A shiver ran down Sam's spine. Sherlock always spoke quickly and in complex terms, but what he heard was 'like Sherlock but worse'. It was hard to imagine without imagining the devil himself. He cleared his throat.

"You mentioned Mycroft, is he really…?"  
"Dead? Yes, he is." Sherlock answered emotionlessly.

"Are you… okay?" He asked slowly.

"Of course," Sherlock said, but his sharp tone told him not to pry. "Why isn't Dean there?"  
"How did you-"

"You would have put him on speaker."

A silence on the other end of the phone. "You're Sherlock Holmes," He responded. "Tell me yourself."

Sherlock thought for a moment, before he understood. "Of course." He said. "The blood tests."

"Now would be a great time for that magic antidote, Sherlock," Sam said weakly. "Haven't I done enough?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but asked yet another question. "What do the doctors think?"

"They aren't sure, they wanna do some more tests. There's nothing really noticeably wrong, so I don't think I'll be tested on as some kind of freak of nature. But they can recognize an addict when they see one. They told Dean they'd want me for therapy, for the burns and the drugs, and he, well, flipped. I had to tell him about the demon blood. I didn't have a choice."

"You could have lied."

"To my own brother?"

"You haven't had a problem in the past."

Sam didn't respond to that, and, after a moment, moved on again. "They're going mad looking for you," He said. "Where the Hell are you?"  
"Getting a new trench coat," He responded, a smile passing over his lips.

"No, seriously." Sam insisted.

"Honest. My old one was burnt to ash, I wanted a new one."

"And you got the money where?"  
"I didn't."  
Sam wanted to tell him off, but all that came from his mouth was a laugh. "You idiot!" He said. His laughter escalated until he was nearly crying and aching all over. He didn't know why it was so funny. Maybe because when that explosion went off he never thought he'd hear anything funny ever again.

Or anything at all, for that matter.

Sherlock smirked to himself and waited for Sam to stop laughing, quite pleased about being alive, too. He had come to the conclusion that life didn't really have a point, but sometimes it was kinda fun. Maybe that was the point. Or something.

Sherlock waited until he was done, before he spoke again. "You asked about the cure…" He began. "I have it."  
"You do?" Sam asked, excitement shining through his voice, but it quickly faded. "You say that like there's a catch."

"You're getting better, Samuel," He complimented smoothly.

"Heh. Thanks." Sam said, but his laugh was fake. "So, what is it?"

"The cure is the same holy water injection I began on you. You were only on it for about twenty minutes. You'd have to stay on it for at least…" He thought for a moment, looking up and doing the math. "Five times as longer. Making it at least five times worse."

Sam swallowed. "Well… don't sugar coat it…" He muttered sarcastically.

"Fine." He said. "The physical reaction to the natural anxiety combined with the physical pain itself will make it closer to six and a half times worse."

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"You're welcome."  
Sam sighed, unable to tell if he was being sarcastic or if he was really that indelicate.

"So… it'll feel like I'm… on fire?" Sam asked wearily.

"Worse," Sherlock responded. "You hadn't gotten to the hallucinogenic state yet. Well, I assume that's what would happen. To be totally honest, I'm not sure what'll happen."

"So you're just gonna shoot me up with something that could kill me or cure me?"

"Have you ever heard of Schrodinger's cat, Samuel?"  
"Uh, yeah. Something to do with a cat and some poison. Why?"

"Life and death are both and neither." He said vaguely. "It's up to you to go in the box or not. I can't tell you what will happen. Are you willing to risk it?"  
"I…" He didn't answer, but paused for a long time. "You know it'll feel like I'm burning?"

"Yes."  
"And that's all you can be sure of?"

"That's all I can be 100% certain of, yes."

"And anything could happen?"

"To some extent."

Sam took a breath, about to speak, but just let it out again.

"Well, do take it into consideration that you were just in a real fire," Sherlock told him factually. "You have _some_ sort of preparation."

"Are you… comforting me?" Sam asked him, disbelieving.

"No," He denied instantly, but he could feel Sam smirking over the phone.

Sam sighed once more, before he briskly said the words. "I'll do it." Sherlock grinned.

"Can you get out of there on your own?"  
"Can I wait until the morning?"  
"In daylight?"

"Early daylight."

"Fine. You'll bring Dean?"  
"If he'll come. Same hotel, same room?"

"Of course."

"See you around… 5:00?"

"Absolutely."

The spoke briskly and fast before Sherlock hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket. As soon as it was away, a taxi, its light piercing through the night nearly passed him. He called it quickly and swung in.

The cabbie clearly didn't know any of his usual routes, and he had to take a few separate cabs across state borders (all of which he kneeled in), so he was there within a few hours. He didn't bother checking in, even though he didn't have the key and had to pick the lock, but it had become second nature. He stepped into the hotel room.

Everything was the same, totally untouched. He wasn't sure why he expected anything else, but he did.

Actually, upon looking closer, he found something _was_ different. Quite different , actually. On the table, scattered with various books and computers practically piled on top of each other, something had been added. He stepped closer. On the center of the table was a note. It was put on printer paper, folded up into quarters, with a ballpoint pen weighting it down. It was hidden in the dark, but still, he saw it before he even turned on the light.

He flicked the switch. He winced as the room illuminated.

Slowly he approached the note, his feet making no sound against the wooden floor. He knew it was too thin to contain a bomb, and he'd have to read it aloud to get cursed by it, and its shape wouldn't let it be a hex bag. Still, last time he had gotten a voicemail, of all things, he was nearly killed, so he told himself he had the right to be cautious.

He lifted the note along with the pen. There was nothing off about it, it was nothing but a letter and a pen. After checking and double checking that it was nothing but a note, he unfolded it.

This is what it said.

 _Dearest Sherlock,_

 _Sorry for my absence. I've been a little busy, to be honest. I know you saw me a few days ago, but those were hardly the right circumstances for a meeting. We really ought to talk in person, there are lots of things we have to discuss. I won't tell you much here. Keep an eye out for me, Sherlock. I'm closer than you think._

Sherlock laid the note back down on the table. It was signed, but not in ink. Not in pencil, not with any marking. But a name was all over the page. He knew who it had to be. Who else?

Who else but Moriarty?

Sherlock stepped carefully into the living room, going to turn on the news for research but it felt like someone was tearing his skin off as soon as he barely even touched the surface of the couch. He stood back up. That wasn't going to work.

It seemed this would require a little problem solving.


	9. Chapter 9: The Devil's Best Man

Meanwhile, Sam was just making his way out of the hospital. Dean was clearly pissed, but he still took care of him like always. It just was less… sugar-coated. He had him kneel in the car (that they stole). He had them take the shortest routes. Neither of them spoke to each other the whole way there. The silence seemed to tear at Sam's heart and rip up his body… or maybe those were just the burns.

He came back to the hotel to a rather concerning sight. Everything was the same, aside from the fact that there was no Sherlock. He would have thought he had been late, but, well… he was Sherlock. He wouldn't just be late for no reason, he would have calculated.

"Wasn't he supposed to be here by now?" Dean asked.

"Yeah…" Sam answered nervously.

Sam searched the hotel room, and Dean went out to check the parking lot and other rooms, et cetera. Sam looked everywhere, every room, every hiding spot. He checked the bathroom last, cause why the Hell would he be in there?

Well, Sam was wrong. He walked into a rather odd sight, actually. Sherlock was sitting fully clothed in the bath, trench coat and all, water coming up almost to the very top. His fingers were pressed together and his eyes locked on his computer, which was propped up on the counter, beside the sink.

"Um... Sherlock, what are you doing?" Sam asked him, confused.

"I'm badly burned, I had to think of something," He answered briefly. "Now hush, this is important."

Sam walked around to see what was on his computer, to find it was a newswoman in front of the white house (or what was left of it, it looked more like ruins now) talking about how it was destroyed and what plans of action would be taken.

"Dude, you were there," Sam began.

"Hush!" Sherlock insisted. They both sat and watched the newswoman.

" _The police are not sure how the bomb got in, or why it was set off, but they do know it has caused catastrophic damage. Nearly the entire white house, aside from a few bedrooms. We're just lucky that the current president was safely in camp David, on vacation. However, many people were killed, including British official Mycroft Holmes and many guards on post at the time. Little can be found at the scene of the explosion. One note was found, however. How it was not burned by the flame is still not known, but it remains seemingly untouched. Written on it are the words 'Johnny's on Broadway with full moon eyes' with three exclamation points. So far nonsensical, but we can't be sure-"_

"Pause it," Sherlock told Sam. He took a step forward and did so, freezing the woman in her tracks.

"Oh, he's not even trying anymore," Sherlock said, a hint of a smirk behind his lips.

"What's that mean?" Sam asked. "Johnny's on Broadway? Who's Johnny?"

"Not a person, a place." Sherlock explained. "Johnson road. It intersects with Broadway street about 20 miles from here, where assumedly, I'll have to go. Full moon eyes; the moon is most visible, and could be described as most full at midnight." He explained. "I have to meet him on the intersection of Johnson and Broadway at midnight tonight."

"Who?" Sam asked.

"Moriarty, of course," He responded. Then, in a single motion he stood up and exited the room, walking dripping wet and leaving a trail behind him.

Sherlock was cooped away for the rest of the day. He had only made such an exit to gather materials, but he ended up going straight back in and back into the water. The burns hurt like Hell, and this, so far, was one of the few ways to dull the pain ever a little. He made sure all the guns were loaded and everything was set. He hadn't met with Moriarty for so many years… he barely even knew if he was ready. He sat there the entire day, not eating, not sleeping, (he was already in a bathroom) and making no sound whatsoever.

Things outside weren't much more active. The Winchesters barely even spoke to one another, or recognized each other's presence at all. Sam knew this couldn't last. He was sat cross-legged on the floor, as it hurt too much to sit on the couch. His shirt was off; it hurt to even have the gentility of his T-shirt brushing against him. His marks were like Sherlock's, only even more aggressive, some of the marks forming a full ring of red all the way around his chest. He hardly wanted to move. Dean was sat on the couch, a book on his lap. He wasn't paying attention to what his eyes were skimming over, but it was some excuse not to look at Sam.

"Dean." Sam finally began. He had to say something. It had been hours. Dean didn't respond, his eyes strictly fixed to his book, ignoring him as well as he could. "Dean, I can't help what I've done, but I'm trying to fix it!" He said rapidly.

"Oh, yeah, cause that fixes anything!" Dean scoffed sarcastically, flipping the page.

"I know it doesn't but…" Sam looked away. "Sherlock told me about the cure," He mentioned.

"Okay, it's a cure, what else do we need to know? You're taking it," Dean said.

"Yeah, but…" Sam stopped in his tracks. It physically pained him to lie to Dean, yet _again_ , but if he knew he'd only stop him. This was for the best. If he didn't know, Sam would take the cure. He'd lock himself up and if he lived he'd come out a healthy man.

That scared him nearly more than he could take. He felt like a little kid, and he didn't want to go through this all alone.

But it was for the best. "Yeah…" He finished finally.

And then, the day went on like nothing changed.

Sleeping was kind of hard for Sam. It was mostly the laying down, really. He ached all over, and the slightest breeze felt like the flame was only being fanned. He ended up sleeping on his stomach, on the majority of pillows they could find in the hotel. Even then, though, his eyes didn't want to shut. He wasn't gonna deny it; he was scared. Scared out of his wits. He could take pain head on, if he knew it would stab or burn or ache, but he really, truly didn't know what was going to happen. The very idea was… horrifying.

Dean didn't sleep well either. He could hardly believe how shocked he was that Sam had lied to him, again. I mean, he always did. Which was even harder to accept. When would he stop? Would he _ever_ stop? Would he just go off into his room one day for 'research' and be dying all the while? Just because it was right? Just because he knew he'd stop him?

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't something he wanted to think about. He didn't really want to think about anything but the damn case.

Dean almost laughed at the irony.

He never thought Satan rising up from the pits of Hell would be the most comforting thought he had in his mind.

I guess shit is pretty bad, he thought.

I guess shit is pretty bad.

Sherlock snuck out after they were both asleep. It was 11:40. Plenty of time.

He swept out into the night, the gentle wind caressing his back, and he waited for a cab to come. It took a while, but he knew there had to be one. When one's light finally came shooting down the road, he waved for it to stop and got (kneeled, yet again) inside it.

"The corner of Johnson and Broadway. Make it fast," He told the cabbie. And he did so, really. He made it there actually three minutes early. Perfect.

He tossed some money in the cabbie's direction and stepped out, letting the light drive away. The place where he was seemed to be… a dent. He had no other way to describe it. Down Johnson road, on either way, apartment buildings and cities loomed like shadows in the night, and Broadway did the same, but in this patch where the two roads crossed, there was hardly anything. No cars were coming. No cars were going. No people were stirring. Very few lights were on.

The wind didn't even dare to blow.

All he had to see by was a single lamp-post, just beside the place where the streets met. Its yellowish light exploded into the shadowy, foggy darkness, but still left Sherlock alone in shadow.

No, he corrected himself. Not alone.

"I made it," He said to the empty air. "I made it out unharmed… or at least unharmed enough to see your little note." He smirked. "Johnny's on Broadway with full moon eyes? Come now. You're getting lazy. You know I can do better than that."

A gentle voice peeked out of the darkness, but its source was unknown. "A warm up, Sherlock." It said, the words flowing smoothly through the air. "Don't worry. There'll be harder puzzles yet."

"Why did you bring me here?" Sherlock asked. "You just tried to kill me."

"Mm, no." He denied. "I didn't kill you, Sherlock. I gave that bomb just enough time not to hurt you enough to kill you. I didn't even immobilize you. Call it kindness."

"I don't think I will," Sherlock responded. "What was the point, then? Blowing up the white house? I know you're dramatic, but that's just careless,"

"Everything I do has a point, Sherlock!" He responded with a sigh.

"And your point was?"

Slowly, a figure stepped into the light of the single, weak lamp. He was in a grey suit and blended easily with the shadow. His eyes pierced through the night like flashlights and even from here you could see the maniacal grin his mouth was folding into. "I told you I'd burn you, Sherlock." Moriarty reminded him. "Didn't I?"

Sherlock slowly shifted to face him straight on. The two looked not so different, but not so alike either. It's like when there's two sources of light and you end up with two shadows, one darker than the other. That's who they were. Neither of them were really good, one was just darker than the other, and still, after all this time, they could hardly figure out which was the darker and which was the lighter.

"Why did you bring me here, Moriarty?" He asked softly.

"Well… the plans have changed. A bit. You know just a teensy tiny little bit. Sorry!" He gave an over the top shrug and look of fake apology, his hands still in his pockets. "Nothing I'm going to tell you, obviously, but I mean, now that we're allowed to talk there's some things I wanted to tell you. Some questions I wanted to answer." He paused, giving him an inquisitive look. "Got any?"

"Well, we ought to start with the basics," Sherlock said. "Who are you?"  
"Jim Moriarty," He responded. "But you knew that one."

"I mean what are you?"

"Mm, we'll get to that one later!" He whined. "You're not asking the important questions, Sherlock! What do you get if you know my race? Nothing but a page for your journal and a pensive look on your face!"

"I might know how to kill you," Sherlock mentioned casually.

"Yeah, but I won't be telling you that." He said. "Next question. Think about it this time."

Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking what question could give him the most useful information. "How are you connected to Lucifer?" He asked.

"Oh there we go!" Moriarty complimented. "Nice and thick and deep, that question! Very _meaty!"_

"And your answer?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well…" He began. "If the big man wants some little kiddies to run around and play daddy, he calls the knights of Hell. When he wants the real work done? He calls me. I'm his first-hand best-man if-they-can't-do-it-I-can!" He chuckled to himself. "The Puc to his Oberon."

Sherlock nodded. "And how'd you get your hands on a position like that?"

He shrugged. "The economic ladder in Hell is a lot like the one on Earth. Although it tends not to go as high. Lower starting point, I suppose."

"And Lucifer… _is_ rising?" Sherlock reassured. Moriarty grinned.

"Oh, he's rising alright. He's got plans for you Sherlock, big ones, _huge!_ You're all the buzz down in Hell!" He sighed with excitement. "Oh, if you think about it it's all so… it's just so…" His tone suddenly changed and he grinned like a child. "Bo-ring!" He smiled at Sherlock's look of confusion. "Don't look like that, Sherlock, you know it's true. Oh, yes, Satan's rising. You know what that means? A boom. A crash. Everyone's dead. The end. Goodbye. No epilogue." He shrugged. "Do you remember the good old days Sherlock?" He asked nostalgically. "Back when life was more than cutting the heads off of vampires? Back when the cases were interesting?" Sherlock didn't answer, but it was definitely true. This was a job, but it wasn't exciting. It wasn't engaging. Nothing was anymore.

"Then again…" Moriarty continued. "That all made a big spin around for you didn't it? You gave it all up. Over one teensy little thing, didn't you?"

"Don't you dare," Sherlock warned.

His voice softened. " _Oh, Johnny boy,_ " He sang evilly. " _The pipes, the pipes are calling."_

"Shut up!" Sherlock snarled, his fists balling.

"Oof, you're touchy!" Moriarty commented. "You're not gonna react well to what I have to tell you next,"

Sherlock swallowed, ready for anything. "What?" He asked. Moriarty took a step closer. The two were just beside each other. Was one of them to walk forward, they would walk right by each other. Moriarty whispered right into Sherlock's ear.

" _It was me, Sherlock."_ He said softly. " _I did it. I killed John. It wasn't some run of the mill demon. In fact, and you ought to value this as a compliment, it was me in person who ended his measly, stupid, worthless little life. It was me who drove a knife through his hot red gut. And I enjoyed. Every. Second."_

Sherlock couldn't take it any more. Faster than he could blink, he pulled the gun out of his coat, aimed, and shot him in the head. Blood spurted and Moriarty fell backward. He was lying motionless on the ground before Sherlock could even fathom what had happened. For a moment, the night was silent.

"And, scene," A voice came from the body. Casually, he sat back up. "Did you like my acting skills? Oh wait, look, I can do magic, too!" For a moment, he looked up, his tongue rolling around his mouth, before he spit a bullet into his hand. "There it is, Sherlock," He said. "But wait!" He clapped his hands together and held them both up. Now there was a bullet in each hand. "There's two!" He let the other hand fall and marvelled at the second bullet. "Nostalgic, isn't it Sherlock? This is the same bullet as all those years ago. I know it drove you insane, for so, so long. 'How could he live? How? How? How?!" He grinned. "This is how."

"What are you?!" Sherlock snarled.

Slowly, Moriarty looked up at him with a ravenous grin on his face. His eyes were a hot blood red all the way through. "Your worst nightmare."

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. He took a single step backward, using every nerve in his body to keep himself from running away. Fear was wisdom in the face of danger. This was danger. It was all that was in his head. Danger. Every primal and thoughtful instinct told him to _run._ But no, not yet. He watched with horror as Moriarty stood without a care and dusted the dirt off his suit.

"I believe that's all, Sherlock," He said. Sherlock winced to see the blood still dripping from the side of his head, but he didn't even seem to notice. "Oh, but there is one more thing," He said. "Now that I told you how I survived all those years ago I think I'd like to know the same. I owed you a fall, and you still aren't dead," He commented. He smiled softly as though this was asking him his favorite color. Not a matter of life or death. "What happened there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallowed. He felt almost… in trouble. And with what he knew, it was even worse. He didn't speak.

"Oh," Moriarty sighed. "You don't know," He observed. "Ah well. Unimportant, I guess. That was so, so, so, so, _so_ long ago. I'm afraid I've got work to do and I must-"

"Wait," Sherlock said. "I can piece most of it together, but there's one piece I still don't get."

Moriarty smiled and spread out his arms. "Lay it on me," He said.

"The note," He said. "Why write it?"

"Well, I had to get you here somehow, didn't I? I thought it was old-fashioned. Did you not like it?"  
"No, I mean…" Sherlock intervened, waving his hand to stop him. "Not… that letter, the one you left before. Written in pen, on printer paper, left in the flat."

Moriarty gave a long pause, looking at him with curiosity. "Oh," He said. "Now that _is_ interesting."

"In what way?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well… only the fact that…" He shrugged. "I didn't write a note. And you know I'm not lying, too."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He had been so sure. How could it be anyone else? How?!

"Hm," Moriarty said. "Maybe you have a secret admirer," He smirked for a moment before bursting out into laughter. "Oh, just kidding Sherlock, no one admires you." He laughed to himself for another moment before sighing with a grin on his face. "Ah… anyway. I _really_ do have to get going. Now run along, Sherlock." He lifted his arm, smirking and touching his thumb and middle finger together. "None of this ever happened."

The last thing Sherlock saw was his eyes go red, his fingers snap, and everything go black.


	10. Chapter 10: Brotherly Love

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Then he groaned and fell out of his bed.

He winced, sitting on the ground. Laying down was like being on fire all over again. He rubbed his eyes, trying to recount what happened. _None of this ever happened…_ Well, maybe it didn't. A subconscious communication that he was within a dream? No. That was what he wanted him to think.

It happened.

A lot was left unanswered, but mostly who on Earth wrote that letter. Now that he thought about it, he saw he quickly jumped to conclusions. _Sorry for my absence? Dearest Sherlock?_ He rubbed his eyes. The handwriting wasn't even the same. What was he thinking?

With some effort and a little extra time, he stood. He hurried into the other room, where he found the note was still there. He lifted it. As soon as he did so, he heard an abrupt thud behind him. He flipped around. The book once on the table was not sitting on the floor.

"Who are you?" He asked. No response. His heart was racing now, the anticipation gnawing at his mind. "Tell me who you are!"

His senses were sharp for any change, even the air feeling like needles against his spine. The first change was slight. A gentle pushing against the palm of his hand. He looked down. The pen, pushing against him of his own free will. He dropped it. Or… he tried. It didn't in fact fall, but remained in the air, its tip, splattered with dark black ink seeming to stare right through him. He looked at it with confusion, just floating there like the air was water.

He startled as it twirled rapidly around and flew in the direction of the wall. It stopped short a millimeter before it hit, and right there on the drywall, it began to write. The same front as the letter.

 _You know who I am_

Sherlock didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he knew, but he had some idea. "I think so, but I think I'm wrong."

 _Take a guess_

"I already have," He responded.

 _Say it aloud, then_

Sherlock shivered and spoke softly, the very name bringing him fear to utter. "Lucifer." Slowly, he watched as the pen etched words deep across the wall. He didn't know if it was really getting slower or if it was just his nerves. Slowly, it wrote out,

 _W-R-O-N-G_

Sherlock was willing to admit he was scared now. If anything scared him, it was not knowing. The only person he had faith in was himself, and when that faith was gone, there was nothing he could do. "Enough of this." He said softly, before his loudness increased. "Show yourself!"

Slowly, the pen turned. Its tip bore into Sherlock like it did before. Obviously it couldn't look, but it certainly seemed like it could. Then, it swung down lower, staring into nothingness and swinging back and forth. It went just beside the chair before it went up into the air and began doing intricate spins and twirls, the same four over and over, in the very same place.

Slowly, he watched as lean, pale fingers apparated around it, on all its sides, revealed to be the source of its twirling. They all seemed like a trick of the light at first, barely there then gone again, before becoming more solid. The pale off-white led down to a hand, a wrist, an arm covered in the arm of a suit. Sherlock watched with amazement as an entire body materialized in the chair before him, and even more astounding than that…

He knew him.

"You're dead," he told him bluntly, factually. The man across from him on the chair gave his copyright gentle smile and placed the pen down gently on the table, taking away any illusion of life it had before.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his eyes sullen, his figure thin, and his tone pale. "Brilliant conclusion Sherlock," He said sarcastically. "Your deductive skills are impeccable. You thought it was both Moriarty and the devil himself before you found the answer."

"Well, you were sort of out of the picture,"

"In what way?"

"You were dead."

"Yes, as you continue to remind me." He stood up. "Anyway, brother mine, there isn't much time for chat…" He stopped, seeing his brother's eyes on his chest, with a slit-shaped hole so far through that you could see the other side of the room. He looked down. "Ah, yes, forgive me, I had to keep the stab wound in this form," He said. "You're just lucky they got rid of the burns."

"You were at the center of an explosion," Sherlock said, slightly disturbed. "Was anything even _left_?"

"Not much," Mycroft said, his soft smile adding to how disturbing the whole interchange of words was. Sherlock felt like he was sitting in a room with a few-day-old dead body.

Then he reminded himself that he _was._

"Anyway, I'm not here out of sentiment, and I certainly don't wish to stay long enough to become a vengeful spirit, so I'll be brief." Mycroft said. "I never got to finish giving my instructions. Do you still have the angel?"

"No, he got away under Dean's watch." Sherlock told him, which he had assumed would happen and didn't really care.

"Ah, well. Bound to happen, really. I suppose I'll just have to do, then."

"Do for what?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, you'll need an escort," Mycroft told him.

"An escort to where, exactly?"

Mycroft glanced at the book on the floor, the one that he had moved, before smiling back up at Sherlock with a spark of evil in his eyes. He told him like it was just a passing thought.

"Hell, of course."

For once, Mycroft's instructions were crisp and clear. I guess he wasn't so worried to be eavesdropped on when he was a ghost. He told Sherlock exactly where to go, exactly which precautions to take.

"And how will you be able to come with me?" Sherlock said, the thought occurring to him. "What are you attached to?"

"I took the precaution of attaching my spirit to the trench coat I knew you'd see and steal in the shop when you ran off from the hospital." Mycroft told him. "Keep on the trench coat, and I stay here. Burn it when you no longer need my services."

Sherlock nodded. It wasn't a promise, it wasn't a denial. He'd decide later. For now, he left it at a nod.

He was already getting what he'd need when Sam stepped into the room, barely awake. He leaned against the doorframe, squinting his eyes at Sherlock.

"Where are you going?" He asked, rather concerned.

"I have to run an errand. Came up on me by surprise. Don't worry, you're not coming," He said, only looking up at him for a brief moment. He glanced over to Mycroft for a moment to find he had already vanished into the air.

"And where will you be going?" Sam asked.

"I won't be telling you that, as of now," He answered.

Sam hesitated, some light fading from his already pale, weary face. "And we're not gonna be trying to… to cure me today?" He asked softly.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Oh, certainly, Sam Winchester," He said, his voice softening to a whisper that was somewhere between malicious and comforting. "It's just a shame I won't be able to record the results. Will you be waking Dean?"

Sam swallowed and looked down. Sam had already made the decision, but it was even harder to say aloud. "Uh, no." He said. "No, I'll take it alone. Let's just get it over with. I've… already felt like I couldn't go much longer without it."

Sherlock nodded, his back straightening. "Get the holy water; lots of it." He instructed. Sam shivered and did as he said. His heart was already racing in panic, like he was drowning and couldn't get to the surface. He couldn't escape it, and he knew it was gonna be Hell. The only thing that kept him from spilling the holy water and running off was the single resonating thought of why he was doing this at all. _For Dean,_ he thought. _For Dean._

The two did everything in a rush, and managed to sneak out before Dean was even awake. They took the impala, which made Sam feel like he was going to vomit. If lying to him and betraying him wasn't bad enough, now he was driving his car. When it started up it sounded like it was growling at him.

Sam drove out to the same warehouse where they summoned Cas. The same chair was still there, the same fire still flickering along the ground in burning, glowing cinders. That all seemed like so long ago.

Sam sat down in the chair. It still stung slightly to feel anything touch the burns along his back, like when he was in the impala, but he was getting used to it. He had to, didn't he? It was gonna be a thousand times worse.

About 6 and a half times worse than _being on fire._

Great.

His heart beat even faster as Sherlock brought out the I.V. of holy water and a huge needle. He set a voice recorder on the dank ground.

"For legal purposes," He began softly, as he turned over Sam's arm. "Do you fully agree to inject yourself with this near-gallon of holy water in an attempt to cure your addiction to demon blood?"

Sam swallowed. "I do." He agreed.

"And you are aware," Sherlock continued. "That the results are, at this point, unpredictable, and that such a treatment could end in failure, extreme pain, and possible death."

Sam hesitated, a shiver running down his spine. "I… am aware, yeah." He said.

"Good," Sherlock turned off the recording and left the recorder beside Sam. "Let's begin."

He injected the needle into his arm, and Sam winced slightly at the pinch. His heart was beating so fast it was hurting his chest. It was starting.

Sherlock stepped back as soon as the needle was in his arm, and his face seemed dark and villainous in the casting, dancing shadows. He reached into the darkness behind him and pulled out a long length of rope.

"What? No," Sam demanded, his instincts to run kicking in again.

"Sam," Sherlock said insistently. "If you don't cooperate, it'll only cause you more struggle." Sam swallowed, his face going pale as Sherlock wrapped the ropes around him, keeping him down tight to the chair. He looked like the devil himself when he stepped away and looked at him, his blue eyes empty and piercing, his dark aura pulling him into the darkness, his stone-set face making it seem like he was about to murder him right there and now. Maybe he was.

Sam began to wonder why he ever trusted Sherlock as he spoke, his voice rolling and manipulative.

"Goodbye for now, Sam Winchester," He said softly, seriously. "I sincerely hope that luck is on your side,"

And with that the shadow of a man was sucked up back into the darkness the towering walls cast, and Sam sat there, tied down with his heart beating like a jackhammer, before the sun could even cast out the vague idea of hope.

And Sam Winchester was left alone in the darkness.


	11. Chapter 11: The Poisonous Cure

By the time Sherlock got into the car, Mycroft was already in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window with his sunken eyes. He jumped as he swung in, forgetting that Mycroft could go wherever he wanted and only be visible when he wished.

"You're going to have to get used to it Sherlock," Mycroft said, not looking him in the eyes, as he caught his breath. "Mm, then again, don't." He said, reevaluating. "I won't be here long. Anyway, we really ought to get going. You remember the address?"  
"Of course, I can hold onto a thought for more than ten minutes," Sherlock said sarcastically. It was impressive how his brother still managed to be an arsehole after he was _dead._ He started up the car and started out of the driveway. "And you're sure that way across the border will avoid _all_ complications?"

"Of course, Sherlock," He assured him. "And even if it doesn't, all you have to say is you're the brother of Mycroft Holmes and that you're here for business, they'll let you through."

"That easily?"

"Yes,"

"Wow, I can't believe they fear you that much." Sherlock said, as he pulled onto the road.

"Hm," Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. "I liked to think it was admiration."

Sherlock flat out laughed at that, a confident half-smile passing over his cold lips. As he pressed his foot harder on the pedal, not afraid to go faster on a road with no cars.

The destination was a little place in Ontario. Why the gate to Hell was there, Sherlock didn't know, but he knew to trust his brother in these types of situations. These types of situations being ones that involve him specifically. His selfishness was the only thing he could rely on. Sherlock had estimated a drive of about 10 hours and seventeen minutes (fifteen, according to Mycroft) and he was prepared to drive it. But back at the warehouse, Sam was already beginning to feel the effects.

The first thing he noticed was the heat. Well, that wasn't the first thing he noticed. What he first noticed was a passing breeze, a ruffling in the bushes, the slightest shift of light. His paranoia was keeping him ready for a heart attack at any time, but the first thing he was sure was real was the heat.

Like last time, it was gradual. At first, he just thought the sun was rising and therefore the sun was shining and therefore the air was getting warmer. But he found himself having to recount the season. It was… May, right? Yeah, May. He swallowed. It felt like August. His heart sank. Now it was really starting up.

He felt himself breaking into a sweat, and wanted nothing more than to untie his hands and get up and walk around a little, instead of staying in this oven. He felt like he was roasting. No, not roasting. He couldn't throw around hyperboles like that when, in a few minutes, he actually would be.

The heat didn't stop with a hot august day. It kept on going. It kept rising, impossibly rising, until his entire body was burning and he felt like he was covered in oil and set on fire. He shivered, trying to keep his breath steady or at least apparent at all. As the heat broke into his eyes, it seemed like 100 LEDs, and shutting his eyes was about as useful as changing nothing at all. He marked it in his head. This was where he got to last time. How much more could there be?

He didn't answer that.

It went on like this for a while. The room got hotter and hotter and the sun got brighter and brighter until the air around him shimmered and sparked into his eyes and he couldn't see. Everything was just a blurry white. He could still hear, though, and god, he wished he couldn't.

Aside from the pounding in his ears, there wasn't any sound coming from any rational source. Until he could hear, too crisp to be a dream, too sharp to be caused by his hysteria, a mischievous voice come seeping out of the light.

"Sammy," It said. His head flicked up and, however much it hurt, he opened his eyes. They watered pointlessly, as still all he could see was white. He swallowed, but didn't answer.

"Sa-am," The voice sang. "Come on, talk to me!"

Sam was shivering now for more reasons than one. He knew that voice. "You're not real," He sighed through a panting breath.

"Aw come on, that's what you always say!" He looked rapidly around him, the voice seeming to come from everywhere. "Shut up, you're not real, let me sleep, what is it with you, Sammy?"

"No," He argued. "No you… couldn't be here," Sam said, starting to want reassurance.

"Mm," The voice responded. "Yes I could. You see, while you and Sherlock were off… exploding and Dean was doing something, probably watching porn, I snuck back to the surface. You all expected some grand entrance, I know, but I've been practicing the art of going incognito,"

"Get out of here, you demonic son of a bitch," He shouted.

"Oh, but it's rude to kick a man out of his own abode, Sammy."

Sam's face faltered, and he played innocent. "What?!" He panted.

"You see… we're not on Earth." said the voice, still wavering and coming from everywhere. "We haven't been on Earth for a long time."

"No…" Sam argued.

"Oh yes," It responded. Slowly, the source of the sound was becoming more sure, from the area in front of Sam. He thought he could make out colors, almost, but anything was hard to see. Slowly, out of the blinding light stepped a darkened figure. His heart dropped. He knew that sickening, almost peaceful smile anywhere.

Lucifer.

"Welcome back, roomie!" He greeted playfully, as if this were a joyous reunion. "It has been _way_ too long."

"Stop."

Sherlock screeched the car to a halt as Mycroft directed. They were on an old, deserted highway, off of a long, greenish-yellow farm. He parked to the side, on the grass, then stepped out of the car.

"Is this really where the gate to Hell is?" Sherlock asked, looking out skeptically into the field. He hesitated a moment, before looking to the shaded dark window. "Mycroft?" He asked.

"Teleportation, Sherlock," Came a voice beside him, that startled him once more. Mycroft stood beside him, not even having to open the door, before he looked into the field. "You're going to have to get used to it if you want to stop making a fool of yourself." He took two long steps forward, putting his hand over his brow to block out the sun. "And no, this is not the gate to Hell. I have a certain connection who stays here on her spare time." He tilted his head up, and spoke out in a perfect accent. " _Ego vocabo te, et qui metit."_

A moment later, a woman stood before him, about 5 feet away. She was clad in a flowing, pitch black dress, and matching nail polish on her long nails. Her hair was wavy scarlet falling gently around her pale, soft-featured face. Her eyes were thickly lined with black and her lips the shade of her hair. "Mycroft," She addressed. Her voice was serious and fairly deep. Her stone brown eyes turned to Sherlock. "And he is…?"

"My brother," He told her. "Margaret, this is Sherlock." They both nodded silently at each other, but Sherlock was already reading her. _His incantation - reaper summoning - reaper? No black cloud - reaper. Old relation, acquainted with Mycroft._ He watched as her eyes returned to him. He tried not to smirk. Slightly dilated pupils, immediate straightening of the backbone, hands held straight, minor weight shifting. She _was_ acquainted with Mycroft, but if it was up to her, that's not all she'd be. Sherlock only hoped his brother would know how to use this to his advantage.

"What do you need, Mycroft?" She asked coolly. Sherlock could immediately see his brother intended to use this factor, and well, as a half smile crossed his face and his eyelids fell ever so slightly in a flirtatious smirk you could see across the room.

"We're going to Hell," He answered her. His voice was smoother, too. He was good.

At first, the reaper didn't answer. She looked him up and down, then changed the subject. "Are you alright, Mycroft?" She asked.

"Yes. Why?" He asked.

She creased her thin eyebrows. "Well… you're dead." She stated obviously. Mycroft smiled and looked down at himself as though she had reminded him of the outfit he was wearing.

"Ah, yes." He agreed. "I'm afraid so. Stabbed. Not the most elegant, but it's fast." He briefly pulled away his jacket to show her the deep wound, now dry but still tinted violet red. She nodded.

"And why are you going to Hell?" She asked.

"We have some business to attend to," He responded vaguely.

"What business?"  
"Secret business." He smiled mysteriously at her and he barely even looked like Mycroft anymore. Margaret swallowed.

"I'm not supposed to make any exceptions, or let any mortals or ghosts into Hell," she stated, her voice still perfectly steady.

"You can't make an exception for me, Maggie?" He asked her. Sherlock smirked. She averted her eyes for a split second and tried to hide a smile at the casual nickname. They might as well have been in Hell now.

"Very well. Only this once," She said. She stepped forward. She took the edge of Sherlock's sleeve in a split second, and didn't even brush her eyes over him, as she took the other hand to gently wrap her entire hand around Mycroft's, maintaining eye contact. Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Just kiss each other while you're at it, get it over with._ He thought.

And then they did.

Sherlock nearly burst out laughing as she leaned up and kissed him on the lips. Mycroft creased his eyebrows in confusion and leaned back. Even his brother, who was basically the Oracle, didn't see this one coming.

And then, on a passing gust of wind, the three were swept away into Hell.

Dean Winchester dreamt of Hell the night before.

Not a rare dream for him, really. He was chained up, horrified, surrounded by the screams like every other time he'd had the dream, everything was the same. Only usually, the one who stepped out of the darkness was the devil. But this time, two figures stepped out. This time, it was the Holmes brothers, wearing sickening grins and shadowed faces, holding two knives.

"What do you think, Sherlock? Shall we begin?" Mycroft had asked.

"Oh, _definitely,"_ His brother responded. He awoke with a start.

Dean awoke with a start. Just a dream, he reminded himself as he rubbed his eyes and slowed his breath. Just a dream.

He threw the covers off of him and swung his legs up over the bed, standing up. He stumbled out of his room and into the bathroom, taking a brief bathroom break, before stepping back out and looking around. Sam wasn't up yet. Odd, he thought, but then again there was last night. Sam probably still didn't want to see him. He gave a heavy sigh. This couldn't last forever.

He walked over to the door to the room Sam had been sleeping in. "Alright, Sammy," he said. "I know you lied, but we can't just not talk to each other forever." he waited. Silence. "I know you're pissed at me," he sighed. "And I'm pissed at you… but we can work it out, okay? We have to. We've got the… freaking devil coming up from Hell, we really don't have time for this. So… I'm not saying I forgive you for this. I'm just saying I'm willing to work through it until all this crap is over." He waited again, leaning against the door, hearing no answer from within. "Alright, now you're just acting like a middle school girl," he muttered, annoyed. He pushed in the door.

His heart dropped in his chest and shattered to the floor. Sam wasn't hiding out. As a matter of fact, he wasn't there at all. There was no one in the room, and the blankets were still thrown aside, but the rest of the room was as it had been. Immediately breaking into a panic, Dean turned away and checked every room of the hotel. Once he had done that, he checked them twice. Then he looked to see who'd checked out, and found his brother had indeed left. As soon as he'd heard that, he raced out to the parking lot to find the impala gone. Now his method of travel was gone. His heart was racing, and his hope dimming.

"Sam?!" He shouted pointlessly up at the sky. " _Sam?!"_

"Calling for him will do you little good," Dean's head whipped around to find the source of the gravelly voice. Just a few feet to his left was the angel that he had captured before, exactly the same, down to the trench coat. Immediately, his guard was up.

"What are you doing here?!" Dean demanded. He didn't draw a weapon, as he knew nothing he had would kill it anyway.

"I'm here to help," he said.

"Yeah?" Dean growled suspiciously. "And why would you do that?"

"We're working for the same cause, Dean." He explained.

"You seemed plenty eager to skip off to heaven back when we actually needed you!"

"All will be explained," The angel insisted, irritation behind his eyes. "For now, we have to get Sam."

Dean lowered his defense, pausing for a moment. There were 100 reasons why Castiel would want to find Sam, and if he was lucky, it was one of the 10 or so that he could actually approve of and didn't involve Sam's death. "Why do you need Sam?" He asked suspiciously.

"For the message. He will be able to more easily identify him."

"Wait wait, what message? Identify who?"

"Lucifer. We need to make sure it's him."

"For what?"

Castiel hesitated a moment, his back straightening in determination. "I did not run off for selfish reasons. I already told you, I'm on your side. As is the rest of heaven."

"So why do we need to find Lucifer?"

"Well, it took work, but I gathered the numbers. I even got extra to support the cause. I will be the one to give the order, but I would be exiled were I to choose the wrong person or demon. I am nearly certain I couldn't make such a mistake, but I'm not willing to take that chance."

"Castiel!" Dean interrupted. "Why were you gathering the angels?"

The angel took a breath, his eyes inflaming with enthusiasm and something else that looked almost like fear. "A mass smiting." He said. "We are going to strike Lucifer back down into the cage."

Dean didn't answer. He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, too amazed and interested to be defensive anymore. The angel spoke again before he could say anything.

"But we are getting more and more word from various angels visiting the future that this is bound to happen soon. We _can't_ miss the opportunity."

"And what do you care if the planet gets destroyed?"

"Does it matter?" Castiel said, almost defensively. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, before Dean briskly nodded.

"You're right. We need to get to Sam. But I don't know where he is."

"Is he angelically warded?"

"I… uh… don't think so-"

"Good." Castiel shut his eyes and creased his eyebrows for a moment in thought, before looking back at Dean. "Got him." He said. "Let's go." Then, he reached out and touched Dean gently on the forehead with two of his fingers, and they found themselves in an entirely different place.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the smell of blood and smoke. It was different than smoke, though, thicker and stronger and almost like if you gathered up enough of it you could pack it up and feel it. It made his eyes water and his breathing heavy. The next thing he noticed was probably the source of the smoke; the heat. It wasn't like a summer day, it was like he was in a burning building. Fearful heat. Fire. A fire he'd felt before.

He pulled open his eyes.

The scene around him was dark, but still, he could see what was before him. The smoke was not visible, even when he could feel it and smell it, and he could see straight on through to the room around him. He was in a long hall, the walls around him dark, crumbling grey coated in dripping, sticky blood, both recent and old. He couldn't tell how long it went on; he looked in either direction and it looked as though the air was tinted blackish red and only so translucent that he could see about twenty feet in front of him.

The room was quiet, but not silent, as distant, echoing screams could still be heard ploughing through the darkness, along with a number of other unpleasant sounds. People calling names of loved ones… scraping… squishing…

Sherlock shivered and frantically looked around him for his brother. He didn't want to be here at all, but certainly not alone. Luckily, he found his brother was calmly standing to his left, and the reaper beside him.

"Interesting, isn't it Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. "The specific tactics used to evoke such fear in the human mind. I did a study on it the first time I got out of Hell."

"What's the plan?" Sherlock asked him, ignoring what he'd said.

"I need to order reinforcements for the cage, talk to a few higher-ups. Well, not higher up than me, but fairly high up. They won't last long, but all I need is time. Luckily, he's not breaking out right now."

"He couldn't even if he wanted to?" Sherlock checked.

"No." Mycroft said, glancing at him. "And I know what you're thinking, Sherlock. It's not a good plan."

"Come on. If we do this right, I'll never have another chance. And he can't break out, you just said it." Sherlock persuaded.

"Yes, that is true. But he is _Lucifer,_ Sherlock. He tends to get to people."

"Since when am I people?"

Mycroft considered this a moment, before nodding. "Fair enough. Go ahead. But be _careful."_

"Yes, yes, of course." Sherlock brushed off, already starting down the foggy dark hall. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock had already vanished into the darkness.

Dean's stomach churned. The ground vanished from underneath his feet, and he felt as though he had been thrown up into the air and came back down again, landing on his feet. Only when he landed, he was in a different place.

The shock of the trip only lasted a brief moment before he forgot it completely, due to a sound resonating through the air: screaming. Dean's head whipped over, and in a split second his heart dropped in horror.

"Sammy," Dean whispered. His eyes widened as he stared at his brother, tied up to a chair and soaking in his sweat, an I.V. stuck in his arm. He panted and groaned and screamed like he was being torchered, even though he was sitting there alone in the room, sunlit by the gaping hole in the ceiling. Dean's shocked paralysis stopped at this point. "Oh God, Sammy!" He cried, racing over to his brother and falling to his knees. His hands immediately went for the I.V., before he found another hand grab his wrist. He looked up to see the angel, materialized beside him and firmly grabbing his wrist.

"Not so fast, Dean." he said, a look of concern in his eyes.

"What the Hell are you doing?!" Dean demanded in a panic.  
"It is clear that he has been on this for some time. At this point in the process, simply removing the I.V. will most likely kill him."

Dean swallowed, horror in his face. He looked down at the bag of holy water that was hooked up to Sam, about a quarter full.

"But it'll run out anyway! Won't that kill him?!"

"Sherlock gave him enough to cure him, so he's likely to come out of his hallucinogenic state soon on his own. But stopping the flow while he's in such a state would cause such a biological shock it would likely cause death."

Dean listened to his full explanation, panting in panic. He looked over to his brother, still pulling against the ropes and groaning in pain. Dean couldn't think of a time when he felt more helpless. Sam was suffering, and he was watching, and there was nothing he could do.

Well, there was _one_ thing he could do.

Anger flooded into his eyes as he stood. His fists balled and rage boiled up in his heart and heated his chest. Sherlock had done this. It was him. It was that _monster._ Dean whipped out his phone and furiously dialed his number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Finally, it went to voicemail, which was still the machine's. The little shit was even too lazy to record his own damn voicemail. As soon as Dean heard the designated beep, he started up.

"Hey Sherlock, it's Dean," he spat. "Guess who I just happened to come across? My own brother, tied up, and hooked up to some damn _poison_ that I can't get him off of, that is _torturing_ him. I hope you know that any trust I may have had for you as a co-worker is gone and that you're fucking dead meat. I don't know where you are or why you're not answering, but when I find, and I _will_ find you…" He shook his head. "You're gonna _miss_ the fact that humans had empathy. Oh, and by the way, I read that blog of your friend's. Sounds like a nice guy. Shame he got such an asshole as friend. To be honest, I don't even _want_ to imagine the disappointment in his eyes. What would John think Sherlock? _What do you really think he would say if he could see you here, killing and torturing innocent people?!"_

"Dean." Dean turned around, lowering the phone from his ear, to see the angel looking at something in his hand.

"What?!" Dean growled. Castiel held up a small black box, which Dean recognized as an old fashioned recorder.

"It has a track on it. Recent."

Dean's heart lit up with curiosity, but he didn't let his face show it. He nodded in the angel's direction. "Play it." He said. Castiel did as he said, and pressed play.

It started with what was clearly Sherlock's voice.

"' _Do you fully agree to inject yourself with this near-gallon of holy water in an attempt to cure your addiction to demon blood?"_ he asked on the recording. The air was sucked out of Dean's lungs.

"What?" He whispered.

" _I do."_ Sam's voice came fearfully on the track.

"Sammy, no," Dean whispered in horrified shock.

" _And you are aware,"_ Sherlock continued on the track. " _That the results are, at this point, unpredictable, and that such a treatment could end in failure, extreme pain, and possible death."_

Dean cast a worried look towards his brother, actually wishing he didn't know this was going to happen.

" _I… am aware, yeah."_ Sam's voice came. Dean let out a shaky breath, a lump balling in his throat.

" _Good,"_ Sherlock said. And then, the track cut out. Dean was left standing there, staring at the ground with nothing less that horror in his eyes. He let this happen… He was too busy being angry and stupid to hear him out. His own words rang nightmarishly in his head. " _Okay, it's a cure, what else do we need to know? You're taking it,"_ Dean swallowed, guilt gnawing mercilessly at his gut.

"Oh god, Sammy." He whispered, looking at his brother, pleading for an invisible source to stop.

"What have I done?"


	12. Chapter 12: A Life Owed to the Enemy

It seemed like the more Sherlock walked, the darker the blackness got. Every now and again there would be a torch flickering red, but they in next to nothing in parting the darkness. Finally, he came across a room that was brighter than all the hall, that somehow he hadn't seen before. Slowly, he stepped inside.

It looked like a fairly stereotypical dungeon, with a wide area and a stone floor, with a few weapons loaded in each of the corners. It was lit by torches on the wall that were much stronger than the ones in the hall, shining bright yellows and oranges instead of dim reds. In the middle of the room was an unnatural looking shadow like a suspended pool of black. He couldn't see any of the other side of the room, really. Although, in the front of the shadow, he could see the gentle glimmer of thick, metal bars.

Sherlock took a fearful step closer. "I know you're here." He said, softly. It was hard to speak in such an unbreakable silence. As soon as he had stepped in, the screams had seemed to stop. "There's no point in hiding."

He waited for what felt like hours in that dungeon, before a gentle, weak voice that still possessed so much fury replied. "Hiding?" It said. The voice came from the shadow, weary but ready to kill. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine as he heard footsteps clatter against the floor of the cage, and a figure that had been unnoticably tucked away in the corner stand and create a humanoid shape somehow even darker than the shadow it was standing in. Slowly it stepped forward into the light.

It was him. He looked human, (with the appearance of an about middle-aged man with blondish hair) but he couldn't have been. Even with his average clothes, such fire burned cold within his eyes so that you could peer into the inferno inside and it would look just the same as the place that surrounded Sherlock. He looked so old and tired but anything but weak; like one wrong step and he would snap your neck, which was probably an understatement. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine as who he knew was Lucifer spoke again.

"Why would I… be the one hiding?" He said slowly, his face brimming a murderously gentle smile. "I'm not the one who is talking to one of the most feared beings of all time."

Sherlock swallowed. "So it is you." He said. From where he was, he was about 5 feet from the cage, and he didn't plan on coming any closer yet.

"You knew that, Sherlock." he responded. "More importantly it is _you?"_ He asked, seeming genuinely interested. Slowly, he wrapped a pale, decaying hand around the steel bar of the cage. "Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh."

Sherlock felt the wind knocked out of him when he heard his name said aloud by Lucifer. It swam off his tongue, like he was being ordered for execution.

"Yes. Is that name familiar?" He asked. The Devil chuckled softly to himself, his lip curling in amusement.

"You know… you're very important Sherlock." He said. Sherlock took a curious step closer.

"In what way?" He asked curiously.

"You're going to help me the way nobody else can."

Sherlock took another step closer, even more intrigued. "I plan to do no such thing."

"Oh, but that's because you don't know who you are yet, Sherlock. What honor you possess." Sherlock kept his face monotone as he took yet another step closer, right up to the bars of the cage.

"Then who am I?" he asked.

A smirk crossed Lucifer's face as a sullen shadow passed over his eyes. "You are my vessel," he said.

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. No way. It couldn't have been.

"I…"

"You've been here before, Sherlock." The Devil interrupted, a little more loudly and casually. "You know you have. There's a certain…" he sniffed the air. " _Smell_ here that no other place has got. You've smelled it before."

"No…"

"It's the truth, and you remember it." He continued. Slowly, he shook his head. "You couldn't survive a fall like that. And you didn't. You hit the ground so hard you went right through it… down here."

"No, that's not-"

"But then," Lucifer continued, beginning to pace back and forth through his cage. "I figured you were too important just to die, so you were lucky enough to have an angel save you." He returned to his place across from Sherlock, with his hand wrapped around the metal bar. "And then you went back to Earth like nothing had happened."

Sherlock stood there for a long time, processing and staring at the floor in shock. It all made sense. And thinking back, he _did_ remember the certain smell that Hell possessed. Only for a moment, though, before he recalled a firm hand on his shoulder and the dirt against his skin as he was returned. He even remembered getting back and Mycroft not being at all surprised. He must have known. Or at least, some of it. All of it made perfect sense.

Yet still, he shook his head. "No…" he insisted.

"Oh, come on Sherlock! It all makes sense and you know it."

"Yes… most of it…" Sherlock agreed, his eyes still drifting across the floor. "It makes perfect sense that I died and was returned. But… if you were the one to save me…" Slowly, he brought his eyes up to Lucifer's, fury and hatred starting to flicker behind his calm face. "Then by no definition was I saved by an angel."

Lucifer's cocky smile was gone in an instant. His lip curled into a sneer, and suddenly a hand burst out of the shadow, firmly grasping the collar of Sherlock's trench coat. His heart raced, as he pulled away from Lucifer's grasp.

" _I am just as much an angel as any of my other brothers."_ He spat at Sherlock in a hushed whisper. " _And don't you ever forget it!"_

Sherlock put his hands on the bars and pushed himself away, taking several fearful steps back. He watched for a moment as the demon backed slowly away, vanishing like a shadow into the darkness of the back of the cage. His eyes were the last thing he saw, flickering red, before he seemed completely gone. Then, Sherlock turned on his heels and went out to meet up with his brother.

Once he was a few steps into the hall, he pulled out his phone to see if Sam had called him. It must have been nearing the time that the I.V. was finished, maybe a little early. Although, instead he found a voice mail from Dean. Not as though he hadn't expected it.

Most of it was boring, expected. You're fucking dead meat, I will find you, et cetera, et cetera.

But it was the second part that caught him off-guard.

" _You're gonna miss the fact that humans had empathy."_ Dean said over the phone. Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept listening.

" _Oh and by the way, I read that blog of your friend's._ " Sherlock creased his eyebrows. He had already figured that out, but why would he be bringing it up? He kept listening.

" _Sounds like a nice guy. Shame he got such an asshole as friend. To be honest, I don't even want to imagine the disappointment in his eyes. What would John think, Sherlock? What do you really think he would say if he could see you here, killing and torturing innocent people?!"_

As soon as the name John came up, a spark began lighting in Sherlock's stomach. How dare he say that, how dare he even _say his name?!_ Fury rose up as he listened to the questions that were being demanded of him. Horrible amounts of anger rose up in his chest because that's how much anger you need to cover up horrible amounts of fear. He knew the answer to that question, and he didn't want to even think about it. He didn't want to know the disappointment in his eyes. He didn't ever want to think about him at all.

Slowly, his lip curled and his fists balled. He lowered the phone from his ear. He let his breath get heavier. Suddenly, with all the strength he had he threw the phone aside at the wall. He felt like he could kill someone. Then again, he felt like he could die himself.

Luckily, a distraction wasn't far off. He noticed as soon as he'd thrown the phone that it hadn't hit a wall, and instead continued sliding far across the ground. He peered intensely through the darkness. A hallway? It must have been. It was darker than any of the wall surrounding it.

To even more prove his point, he watched as the phone slid across the floor out of the darkness, back to his feet.

Nothing was more iconic of a trap, but how could he do anything else? With a look down both sides of the hallway, he went in to investigate.

"How long are we gonna be putting up protection, I mean, is there even a point?" Crowley, well-known king of Hell spread his arms in questioning to Mycroft Holmes, discussing the means of keeping Lucifer caged.

"We need as much protection as is demonically possible." Mycroft told him. "Check your stores. See what you have."

Crowley sighed. "Right…" He muttered, then walked off to see what weaponry they had. Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw his brother walking up to him, and he gave a brisk smile.

"Ah, Sherlock. Discussed all you like with Lucifer?" Sherlock didn't reply. He only gave a gentle yet menacing smirk. Mycroft's face dropped as he looked down to see the iron bar Sherlock was holding. "No…" he said. "Not Sherlock…" Before he could move, Sherlock (or whoever was utilizing his body) swung the bar at Mycroft. Fear drifted in his eyes for a split second before he vanished into a puff of smoke, and the stranger was left alone, smirking at his own demise.


	13. Chapter 13: When Hell Rises

Dean could barely stand to be in the same room as Sam. He stepped out of the warehouse, but even from inside, he could hear his brother screaming for help he had no way of giving him. And it was all his fault. Nothing was worse.

He wearily wiped his eyes and winced at the oncoming headache.

"The holy water is nearly out." Castiel said. Dean whipped around to find he had appeared a few feet behind him. He nodded.

"Good." He said. He looked up at him dependently. "You think he's gonna be… okay?"

"All signs say he'll live." He said. "And I've been… healing him as much as I can, but there's not much I can really do." Dean nodded in understanding and swallowed.

Of course, the angel just had to show up when his eyes started to get misty. He stared up at the sun and sighed, hoping they'd dry as he turned around, away from the angel.

"Dammit…" He hissed.

"Do not blame yourself, Dean." The angel said. "You never wanted this, I'm sure."

"No but I did." He said softly. "I wanted him cured, and I wanted it whatever the cost!" He sighed and shook his head, tears threatening to fall. "God, I was so damn stupid…"

Castiel paused, considering what to say. He liked humans, and so far, he liked Dean. He wasn't going to go out of his way, but he wasn't enjoying seeing him upset.

"Your brother is… improving." he said through a sigh. "His fever has gone down, and he's calmed down a bit."

Dean didn't respond, just nodded. "Thanks," He told him genuinely. Although it seemed like no matter how he tried, it sounded like it was sarcastic, so he added, "Really."

"You're welcome," Castiel responded.

"I should never get so pissed at him…" Dean said, more to himself than the angel behind him. "Every time I do I just do something stupid and… Sam seems to mistake making me feel better with making him feel worse." He whispered softly, entirely to himself. "He's just gonna keep hurting himself unless I'm more careful… I keep forgetting I still gotta watch over him… things got so bad and I forgot task number one…" He shook his head. "I can't believe I-"

He stopped dead short. The air was quiet, no not that, seemingly dead silent. The distant screaming he had nearly gotten used to had… stopped. He listened for a while before he heard calling from inside.

"Hello…?" It was Sam. He was okay. "Is… is anyone…? There…?"

Dean turned on his heel and darted into the building, Cas following more slowly after. Dean sighed with relief to see his brother had stopped screaming and started looking around in confusion. He took a step closer and kneeled down in front of Sam. "Sammy… Sammy, it's me, I'm here." He said. Sam winced, leaning back and straining to see what was just in front of him.

"Dean…" He whispered weakly.

"Yeah, it's me, Sammy, I'm here." Dean said. He leaned forward. Just being near Sam got him soaked with sweat, but still he let him fall into his arms as he pulled out a knife and cut the ropes behind him. Freed from the ropes, he collapsed weakly atop him, and Dean helped to haul him up again. He sat beside him, one arm around his shoulders and one hand supporting his chest. "Sam, look," He said nodding to the I.V. bag. It was empty, the last of the water going tube going up into the I.V. and vanishing forever. Dean smiled encouragingly up at Sam. "It's over," He said.

Sam smiled weakly, breathing heavily, each exhale more of a sigh than a breath. "It's over…" He repeated weakly. Then, his eyes shut peacefully, and he leaned back in the chair, a smile over his face. "It's over…" He muttered repeatedly to himself. "It's over… it's over…" Dean smiled in relief as well, gently removing the I.V. from his brother's arm and letting it clatter to the ground.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!" he told his brother. He knew he hadn't listened or heard, but he didn't say it again.

Castiel was waiting beside the two brothers who were panting in relief, just watching them. Suddenly, a dizzy spell passed through and he could feel the time approached. He put his hand to his head and swayed slightly.

"We have to go." he said immediately, panic beginning to brush over his senses. Dean scowled up at him.

"Are you kidding? He can barely walk!" He said.

"I know, but we don't have the time to spare."

"He just barely got _better!"_ Dean shouted.

"This is happening _now,_ Dean!" Castiel shouted back.

The body of Sherlock hurried back down the hall at a running pace to the cage of Lucifer, stopping as soon as he reached the bars. He stopped right at the end, his gentle smile still there, and he held one of the metal rungs. Lucifer emerged from his shadow again, a curious smile across his face.

"Moriarty," he identified. "Why are you possessing Sherlock Holmes?"

Moriarty gave an animated shrug. "I needed him out of the way, sir." He said.

"For what, exactly?" He replied suspiciously. Moriarty smirked.

"For this," he said. Then he reached rapidly through the bars and took hold of Lucifer's shirt. His eyes held no fear, only annoyance.

"What are you-"

Before he could make a move, the path of flowing maroon smoke transferred from the mouth of Sherlock into Lucifer, and Moriarty had switched vessels. Both the bodies fell to the floor.

The first to rise was the body of Lucifer. Only it wasn't quite the body of Lucifer. It wasn't made of the same shadow that the Devil was, easily able to slip back into the shade of darkness. This soul was glowing black, with such immense power it could visibly be seen. His eyes were aglow with red.

Sherlock rose shortly after, back within himself again. He looked up at the far beyond human creature, glowing with red and black, shimmering and somehow illuminating the shadows with a deeper darkness. Sherlock shivered. Oh god. It didn't take his intellect to find this was the worst possible outcome.

For a long time, the monster didn't move. Finally, it slowly looked down and opened its hand, finger by finger, inch by inch, then, at the same monotonous speed, closed it again. Knowing how to move, it turned slowly forward with a gentle smile on its face. In a rapid movement, it raised its hand and struck the bar to the gate of Hell. Sherlock was hurled across the cold ground, and it seemed as though all of Hell had experienced a one-second earthquake. Sherlock tried to stand, but he struck it again. And once more.

At this point the bar was broken away, and clattered across the floor. The entity casually stepped out of the cage.

"Oh… this is going to be good…" It said in a soft, excited voice that seemed to echo off the walls. Sherlock's heart raced as its eyes trailed across the room to finally met up with his. He tried to scramble backwards only to find a pair of ankles behind him. His head whipped up; the demon had already appeared behind him. "That's not gonna work Sherlock," It taunted. He shivered. There was no doubting it; this was Moriarty. With the power of… a god. A devil. Not to mention so much more. The demon grabbed him by the collar and easily picked him up off the ground, raising him into the air.

"Let's get this party started, shall we?" He whispered, peering into Sherlock's eyes. Then, he bent down and jumped up, hitting against and breaking through the ceiling. Sherlock couldn't see anything, but he could feel the hot friction of the dirt against his skin. He could feel himself climbing out of Hell like he had once before.

Sam nearly fell completely onto Dean as soon as they had appeared with Castiel to the place where it would happen. Cas peered outward into the field, where the wind was starting to pick up and the ground was starting to shake. He turned up to the sky and shouted,

" _It has begun!"_

Dean fell down with Sam and sat with him on the grass. He shouldn't have been moved; his head was already aching like he was having a migraine. Dean could feel the wind grow stronger as he held onto his brother, and when he looked up to the sky he could see something change. A sharp white point of light appeared amidst the blue like a star during the day.

"It's started Sammy," He shouted over the wind. "The angels are coming!"

As soon as Lucifer was above the ground, Sherlock was thrown brutally aside. He panted when he hit the ground, feeling an intense pain in his chest that was probably his ribs breaking. He gasped for air in the deafening wind, trying to look up at the mess he'd started without his eyes tearing up. It was even worse on Earth; you could clearly see the red and black halo surrounding the demon, and the shining in his eyes. But something else was happening, the air around him was getting brighter. He looked up for a moment to see a blinding white light hurtling towards Earth, but looked away as soon as he had. It was as bright as the sun.

He stared up at the creature, rising up, laughing to himself. It grinned, mad with power, laughing hysterically at the plans it had for mankind. But as it looked up, it stopped.

Dean peered out into the chaos that was a ways away. Even from this distance, he could see the dark figure of Sherlock Holmes tossed against the ground. He turned to Cas.

"Hey! Hey, I have to get him! He helped us!" He shouted over the wind.

"Dean, it is too dangerous at this point!" Castiel shouted back.

"No, I have to do this!" Whatever the angel said after that, he wasn't listening. He fought against the wind and stood, which he found was blowing away from the event, charging in to save the maniac he had worked with for so long.

Sherlock stared up and saw the creature had stopped laughing. It was looking up; looking up in fear and shock. It growled for a moment, before a long red cloud streamed out of its mouth just as soon as the white light was about to come down. The cloud passed right by Sherlock, pulling him away like a class 5 hurricane and getting inside his lungs and making him gasp. It was so thick it blinded him from all his surroundings and all he could see was the smoke. His eyes watered. He tried to move, but wasn't strong enough.

" _I'll be back, Sherlock!"_ The voice of his arch enemy cried furiously from all sides. " _Don't you dare think that I won't!"_

Suddenly, a hand breached the smoke and grabbed his. Sherlock's head flipped around to see Dean, fighting against the wind and smoke. "Sherlock!" He called. "Let's go!" Sherlock only waited a moment before pulling himself out of the smoke which passed and plunged into the ground. He gasped as soon as it was gone, but didn't have time to catch his breath. Dean was dragging him along the long plain, away from the blinding white light he could see out of the corner of his eyes. There was no time for looking back.

At that point the winds were so strong, there was barely a need to run, they were practically toppling over. Panting and sweating, their muscles burning they were both using all the stamina they had just to stay standing and stay walking. Finally, they made it back to Cas and Sam.

"Is that all you had to do?!" Cas called to Dean. He was standing easily straight up, the harsh winds easily ignored by his angelic strength. Dean nodded.

"Yes!" He shouted. "Now let's get out of here!" He walked over to Sam and grabbed his wrist, and Sherlock fell down beside Dean. Castiel touched both Sherlock and Dean on the forehead and all four of them were gone.


	14. Chapter 14: Baker Street's Legacy

The angel brought them to the hotel, the room he knew they'd be staying in. As soon as the three men arrived along with them, they all fell to the floor, gasping for long needed air and trying to recount what happened.

Dean was, believe it or not, probably best off. He arrived at the hotel and dropped Sam's wrist, falling to his hands and knees and breaking into a heavy cough. He surveyed himself briefly; still alive? Yep. Everything still attached? Yep. Broken bones? He could feel his ankle in a searing pain, more than the bruises that covered him, and his wrist in a similar, but slightly lesser situation. He winced, only now realizing the pain.

As soon as he could think straight, fell into a sitting position and cast a glance towards Sam, who lied unconscious on the floor. Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but it may very well have been ever since they and Castiel left the warehouse. He watched him suspiciously until he could clearly see his chest rising and falling steadily. Phew. Still alive. But still, he'd just been through alot, and it was probably best that he let him sleep.

When Dean was satisfied with the state Sam was in, he turned to Sherlock, sprawled on his side and unconscious. He waited, looking to see if he was breathing, but from this angle he couldn't tell.

"Sherlock…" He asked after a moment of waiting. He peered over at him. Just as he began to worry, Sherlock gasped loudly, yanking his eyes open, and sat up rigidly. Dean let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Just as soon as Sherlock was up, he was doubled over in pain and clutching his stomach. He hissed loudly in pain, feeling as though his gut had been wrenched around inside him. Definitely a few ribs broken. He hardly knew how he was still sitting up.

The angel took a step closer, a serious look on his face, and reached out his hand. "Here, let me-"

"No…" Sherlock managed out through a groan. "First… did it work?! Is Lucifer caged?!"

Castiel nodded. "Yes. The plan was successful." Sherlock sat for another moment panting, and looked up softly at the angel. His voice got slightly quieter.

"And Moriarty?" he asked. Cas looked away and mournfully shook his head.

"My apologies." He said. Sherlock cast a look at the ground and slowly shook his head.

"Oh… well, I guess you can't have it all…" Carefully, he pulled his arms away from his stomach and said through a wince, "Have at it." Castiel gently touched him on the chest, making him gasp slightly in pain, before sighing in relief. He rolled his shoulders back and rolled his head to either side, immediately feeling rejuvenated. "Thank you," he said briefly. Castiel just nodded and shifted his eyes to Dean.

"And you and your brother, are you physically injured?" He asked. Dean shrugged.

"Little bruised, little battered." He said gruffly. "Couple broken bones, but I've had worse."

"At least let me heal the broken bones." Castiel offered, slight hints of worry in his eyes. Dean sighed. It would be nice. He gave a brisk nod, allowing the angel to step up to him and sequentially heal his wrist and his ankle as he gestured to them. As soon as he touched it it burned a little inside and out for about a second, before the entirety of the pain vanished, leaving him feeling as though that part of his body was new. He sighed in relief.

"Thanks," he said.

"Of course."

"No really." Dean added, looking up at him. "I know you're an angel, and you didn't have to get us all out of there, or wait for me and Sherlock. I appreciate it." He said genuinely. Castiel looked away and nodded, not letting it show that he was rather touched by the human's words. He stood fully back up, nodding curtly at Dean.

"You're welcome," He said. "Anyway, if you three are well off, I must be returning to heaven."

Dean nodded in understanding. "Well, feel free to pop on back whenever heaven needs a favor." he offered. Cas nodded.

"I appreciate it." Then Dean blinked, felt a gentle gust of wind in his face, and the angel was gone. A moment passed as both Dean and Sherlock looked at the place he used to be before Sherlock spoke, not looking forward at Dean.

"I suppose you'll want to be going your own way, now that all this is over." He said.

"Right now I want to _sleep,"_ Dean said, and as he said it he knew it was the truth. His body was physically barely able to move, and his mind could barely process any of the day before him. "It's been pretty much the longest day I've had _ever._ I don't even care that it's like, one in the afternoon, I'm taking a nap."

Sherlock nodded as Dean followed through. He carefully stood, wobbling on his first try, then pulled Sam gently up, unwaking onto his shoulder. He put Sam's arm around him and shuffled into the bedrooms, most likely putting Sam on one of the beds and collapsing on the other. It didn't seem like such a bad idea. In fact, the more Sherlock thought about it, the more tired he felt he got. He carefully pulled himself up off the ground just long enough to make his way over to the couch, then flopped down face-first upon the cushions. He was on the verge of falling asleep when a voice he knew broke his peace.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a moment to process the voice and phrase, before letting out a heavy sigh and propping himself upon one elbow. He squinted up at his brother, irritation in his eyes.

"Can't you go back to actually being dead?" He asked him.

"That's actually the matter on which I came," he explained, still smiling softly the way he did. "One matter remains unsolved and it's the fact that I'm still here. You haven't burned the coat yet, Sherlock."

He groaned, letting himself fall back down onto the couch. "Sleep first," He insisted.

"Sherlock-"

"Sleep!"

Mycroft gave an annoyed sigh and flickered away into the air. Sherlock waited several moments. He must have been… really gone. He sighed in relief, and almost immediately fell off to sleep.

It was dark out when Sherlock awoke.

He blinked his eyes heavily, sitting up and looking around at where he was. He tried to recount all the events that happened the day before, as he rested his head on his hand. Moriarty possessed Lucifer… rose up… but then… something…

No… he didn't have enough brain power to process it. Although, something he did remember that hadn't really occurred to him before as the fact that Dean had rushed out from fairly far away to pull him out of that red-black smoke. Interesting, he thought. Just moments earlier, he had sent him a message threatening to kill him and hunt him down, and yet nearly the moment just after he was putting his own life at risk to save him. For what reason? If he wanted him dead, wouldn't it be so much more convenient to let him die there.

Sherlock sighed. He could never understand other people.

He threw his legs over the couch and stood up, figuring he would need to burn his coat and send Mycroft back before he began to get vengeful. His hand rubbed across his eyes, still barely awake. Figuring Dean didn't have to be roused, he grabbed a lighter and some oil that he had and turned the handle to the door.

"Where are _you_ going?" Sherlock turned around to see a tired, disgruntled Dean standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

"It's a long story," he said. Dean shrugged casually, drifting forward a step.

"Tell it," He recommended. "I'm well rested." Sherlock sighed. At this point, it would seem like he was hiding something and it would be easier just to explain.

"My brother, he came back as a ghost to help me keep Lucifer caged. He locked himself onto the trench coat I bought, so I have to burn it." He explained. Dean took a moment to process, before he nodded his head in understanding.

"Where you gonna do it?" He asked.

"The warehouse seemed to have served us well thus far."

"And you're just gonna light it up?"

Sherlock looked away briefly and nodded. "I intended to."

Dean gave a slow shake of his head. "No way, man. He's your brother, we gotta do it right. I'll get the wood and see if Sam can come help." he turned to step back into the bedroom and wake Sam, before Sherlock stopped him.

"Do what right?" He asked.

Dean turned back to face him. "A hunter's funeral." He told him obviously.

"That's really not necessary-"

"Too bad, we're doing it anyway. What with your screwed up brain, you could stand to do a little proper mourning."

"Can't mourn something you don't miss."

Dean smirked. "Come on, you'll miss him." He insisted.

"I really won't."

Dean sighed, shaking his head. "Fine, don't miss him," he said. "But don't leave, cause I'm getting Sam."

As Dean turned and walked back into the room, Sherlock rolled his eyes and took his hand of the door's handle, tapping his foot impatiently as he awaited Dean's return.

Sam took a little shaking and re-waking to pull him out of bed, but even after just one sleep he was doing much better. He was still about as weak as he'd be if he had a moderate flu, walking fairly slowly and getting a headache easily, but he was much better than yesterday. Dean drove out to the nearest place a forest would be and gathered up enough wood to put up the proper funeral, while Sam took Sherlock's coat and wrapped it unnecessarily in the usual body bag. Even knowing it was pointless, he confided to Dean that he had felt fairly useless the last few days what with the burns and the holy water and just wanted to be part of the process. So, the coat would be wrapped in a body bag. So be it.

As soon as all that was gathered, they crammed all they could into the trunk and other seat in the back of the car and drove out to the old warehouse. Out in the night sky, Dean loaded up most of the wood, letting Sam do the lighter pieces and feel useful. Sherlock was being a lazy jerk, as always, but today he didn't really mind. It was a beautiful night that felt like autumn during the day, with a chilling next-to-cold temperature and a crisp refreshing breeze. Every star was out. However sore his body was, it was kind of nice.

Dean didn't notice until he was finished that Mycroft himself was waiting a good few yards away from the group. It was odd seeing it, Mycroft thought. Someone setting up the materials for your funeral. It was something you never really think you're gonna see. At that point you'd be in heaven or reincarnation or whatever you believed would happen. But here Mycroft stood, watching the preparations for the aftermath of his own death. His own passing. The very event was made to help people who were gone, but he was still here.

Interesting, he thought.

When it was all set up, Mycroft took a few steps forward, just beside Sherlock. Sherlock didn't turn his head, even after he saw him. Dean briefly passed his eyes over Mycroft before doing an awed double take, lighter in his hand.

"Whoa." he said. "Forgot you were... right." He said.

"No offense taken," Mycroft responded with a gentle nod. Sam gave him a look for a few seconds, clearly as taken off guard as Dean was, before turning his eyes back to the pile of sticks. Dean coated the sticks in oil and flicked on the lighter. One stick, dripping with oil stuck out farther than the others, and he held the flame to it. With a mighty _whoosh_ the gigantic pile lit up in flames, brightening the night sky and projecting smoke high into the air. It gave off a radiant, comfortable heat.

 _Not at all like Hell fire,_ Sherlock had thought.

In his hands rested the coat in the body bag. The brothers figured that he should be the one to do it; after all, it was his brother he was sending to Heaven (or Hell, I suppose, the Winchesters didn't know). At this point, all eyes were on him as he stared down at the coat in one hand, the other in his pocket. His face gave no clues to his expression, but his mind was racing. Mycroft was an aristocratic snob and a power-hungry arsehole, he knew that. But for some unknown reason, the very few memories he had in which Mycroft was actually being a decent person came to his head. Memories when they were younger, being taught how to deduce. They used to sit on the curb for hours telling all they could about the people in passings cars. Mycroft asking 'what can you tell?' and Sherlock doing his all to impress him. Little did Sherlock know why he was thinking of this now, after all these years. I guess his mind was trying to tell him something: _he's your brother._

"You good, Sherlock?" Sam asked him. Sherlock ignored him.

"Come on, don't tell me you're hesitating now. So sentimental," Mycroft sighed. Sherlock only waited another moment before putting on a fake smirk and scoffing.

"Don't be outrageous," He said. "I like this coat, that's all. You couldn't have attached your spirit to something I liked less?"

"You'll miss me a little," Mycroft predicted.

"Please," He scoffed. "I've wanted to do this for years."

"I can see right through you, Sherlock."

"Can not."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "I'm not rebutting, you know!" he shooked his head. "You have always been such a child."

"And you've always been such a _loser,"_ he said childishly. It confused Sam and Dean even more then, when the two brothers gave a brief smile to each other. Little did they know that it was not only a stupid comment, but a gift from Sherlock to Mycroft. If the last thing in your head when you die is your own brother, before life had hurt him and messed him all up, back when he was innocent and nothing more than a child as Mycroft could sometimes still see Sherlock, you've died a good death. Mycroft knew it was one of the kinder things his brother had done in his lifetime.

"Anyway," Mycroft said in a breath. "Enough stalling. I've been here so long, it's a surprise I haven't gone vengeful already. You better light up that jacket, Sherlock." He looked upward to the stars and lowered his voice, whispering more to himself than anyone in particular. " _I think it's high time I was heading out."_

Sherlock cast one final glance at his brother, his hands in his pockets and his eyes to the stars. Then without another moment of hesitation, he threw the jacket onto the fire. Slowly, an orange flame flickered in Mycroft's chest. He remained totally still as it grew around his body and transformed him into little ashes like raven flower petals. They drifted up into the sky and flickered away like tricks of light until Mycroft was gone.

Dean waited about twenty seconds in anonymous respect before he spoke. "Ready to pack up, Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock thought for a moment, an idea sprouting in his head. _No,_ he thought. _I can't…_

"Sherlock?" Dean asked again. Sherlock swallowed, confirming his idea and staying where he was. _But I have to…_

"Not yet," he said. He took in a heavy breath, the fire he was staring at flickering behind his eyes. "I have… unresolved matters to attend to."

Sam cocked his head, but Dean understood. "What do you mean?" Sam asked, turning to Dean. Dean didn't look at him, but kept his eyes on Sherlock.

"Do it," he encouraged him. "You can't do it wrong, just say it from the heart."

"I've been told I don't have one," Sherlock mumbled softly.

"Would he say that, you think?" Sherlock averted his eyes, before taking a full breath and letting it slowly out, bracing himself. His eyes locked onto the fire as he imagined the body burning inside. Finally, he said the start of something he should have finished so many years ago. Finished properly.

"John," he said firmly. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. When he opened it again, he actually managed to speak. "I remember… messing up your best man speech so far as to make it unsalvageable. Thus was the reason I was afraid to give this eulogy. I said marriage and death were alike and I meant it, John. When you got married, I was forced to see you separate from me and I felt I couldn't do anything to retaliate because you were happy where you were, and who was I to be so selfish? I don't see much difference now. But… I'll try to make this right. You were… not a great hunter, not a great detective… but a great man. The greatest actually. The greatest I've ever met. I know you saw yourself as something like my sidekick or assistant, but in truth that is the situation backwards. You proved you were fine without me, for two years you were fine without me, but it's been nearly the same time and I am… a killer, a madman, an emotionless mess, and barely even able to hold myself…" he trailed off. He could feel tears welling up in his throat and brimming his eyes. He let out a shaky breath and swallowed, calming himself down. "Anyway…" He whispered. "You didn't deserve to die. And yes, I'm going to say it, and I'm not going to contradict it. You didn't deserve the fate you got, and you shouldn't have gotten the fate you got, and you have… no idea… how many times I wished your fate could be mine. For your sake, for my sake, and for the sake of just about everyone else on this planet." He straightened his back, his eyes clearly now glistening.

"I'm about to do something, John." He said. "It won't fix everything, I'm… beyond salvation at this point. But maybe it will counteract something I did wrong along the road and maybe you'll see me after I do it and… not be as disappointed as I know you would be now." Then Sherlock stopped, his eyes directed to the ground.

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked him curiously.

"I'm going to make a call," he told Dean. "Can I borrow your phone?" Dean didn't question what happened to his, and immediately pulled out his phone and handed it to Sherlock. He still remembered the number, and he dialed it up as soon as he could. Holding it to his ear, he waited and prayed for an answer. Dean and Sam waited too, until finally, he began to speak to the other side of the phone.

"Hello?... Holmes, Sherlock Holmes." A gentle smile crossed his face, a genuine one. It was almost odd to see as he listened for a long time. "Yes, really me… I know, I'm sorry, I've been working… I'm fine… Actually I was calling on a matter of business… I was wondering if you'd sold 221B Baker Street?... The very same…" His eyes lit up as the person on the other side of the phone spoke. "Really? Fantastic… I'll be there as soon as I can… I'm in America, so it may take a while… Can you reserve it…?... Oh, wonderful… Okay… Okay, I can make my first payment in cash, when I get there… Yes, permanently…" He chuckled softly, a warm smile on his face. "Alright… It was good talking to you too, Ms. Hudson… I'll see you again as soon as I can." Then he hung up the phone.

"What was that?" Dean asked. Sherlock smiled down at the ground the warmest smile he thought was possible for him to give.

"I'm going home," He said softly, a tone of relief in his voice. He stepped forward, handing Dean back his phone, which he tucked back in his pocket. He smiled, too.

Sherlock took in a breath as he looked up at Sam and Dean, one by one, and then spoke.

"So long Winchesters. I think I can hear a cab coming down from a ways away I intend to catch." He nodded. He already seemed altogether lighter. "It was good knowing you," he said. And it sounded genuine.

"You too," Said Sam.

Dean nodded. "Of course." Then Sherlock nodded and started off towards the road, the eyes of the brothers following him. Just as he guessed, the glowing headlights came soon around the corner and stopped as Sherlock waved. His hand was on the handle when he turned back and shouted back to them.

"Oh, and one more thing!" He called. "They're at 45 Jefferson Alley, Springfield, Pennsylvania!"

"What are?!" Dean called back.

"My books! Use them as you will, Dean Winchester!" Then, saying nothing else, Sherlock swooped into the taxi and drove off. Dean was left awestruck, his jaw dropped and his eyes lit with excitement.

"The books!" He whispered eagerly. "I forgot about the books…" A grin replaced the look of awe on his face and he fist pumped the air in triumph. "Ha ha! Yes!" He cried. He waved after the car and shouted after it, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sam stepped up beside him, a confused smile on his face. "What are his books?"

"Dude recorded everything he knew about monsters and all those crazy nerdy shortcuts on how to kill 'em in books!" He told Sam eagerly. Sam's jaw dropped.

"Really?!"

"Yeah!"

Sam hesitated a moment, looking off at the end of the road, a grin of amazement replacing his look of shock. "We're set for life!" He said.

"Yeah!" Dean agreed. Sam laughed in excitement.

"Woo! That's awesome!" He raised his hand which Dean vigorously high-fived. Together, the two brothers walked back to the impala, grins over their faces and good feelings in their hearts. And after all this, it felt damn good.

I guess their thoughts were the same, because neither of the brothers got into the impala, both of them leaning against the side. They sat there for a good long time in the quiet night that was illuminated by the giant bonfire behind them, giving their faces an orange, glowing tint. Sam was the first to speak.

"You think he's gonna be alright?" he asked Dean, looking at where the cab had disappeared to.

Dean nodded. "I wouldn't have if he hadn't said all that stuff, but now… yeah, I think he'll do pretty well, really," He confessed.

"Yeah, and what was all that, anyway? Was John a friend?" Sam asked, turning to Dean.

"Yeah, pretty much his only," Dean replied. "Died on a case, and Sherlock was never really the same afterwards."

Sam turned back to the road and nodded. "Huh…" He said. There was a long pause before Dean spoke, still staring out into the night.

"And what about you, how you doing?" He asked.

Sam shrugged. "I'm better. You know, a little weak, a little dizzy." he said. Dean nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me about the antidote?" he asked him.

Sam gave a heavy sigh, honestly looking down and contemplating the answer. "You wanted me to take it no matter what. So I took it no matter what. You were already so pissed, I kinda figured that if I suffered you'd know I deserved it. And if I died…" he shrugged. "You'd move on."

Dean looked up at Sam, shock and fear in his eyes. "Don't you ever think like that, Sammy," he said shaking his head. "It doesn't matter how pissed I get, I want you safe. That's top priority. Always."

Sam looked away, chuckling somewhat uncomfortably. "Even if it was me or the world?" He asked sarcastically, casting his glance towards Dean. Dean looked up at him with creased eyebrows like it was the stupidest question in the world.

"Of course," he said.

Sherlock curled up in the side of his taxi, his head buried in the autumn air. He felt a tremendous weight off his chest - one he didn't even know was there. There hadn't been a time he felt more at peace. He actually fell asleep in that taxi cab.

He made his way all the way back to London as soon as he possibly could. When he arrived at Baker Street, he was practically a wreck. He stepped out of the cab with the weight of nostalgia threatening to pull tears from his eyes. The flat's soft warmth pulled him in, and he barely remembered walking up the steps.

Ms. Hudson's eyes lit up when she saw him. He tried to insist that she not pamper him, but I don't think she was able to help it. She grabbed his sleeve and set him roughly through the old halls into his old chair in a hurry, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to stand and see what she was doing. She'd kept everything the same; all his furniture, all his mess, eve his chair. But, considerately, not John's. He relaxed a little when he thought of John. It didn't hurt as much anymore.

Something about the texture and the smell of the old chair made it feel like the last three years never really happened at all. Like nothing had ever changed. Just as he thought he may start to get sad, he saw something walk in that made sure to tell him that everything would be okay.

Ms. Hudson, having made a full plate of biscuits and a cup of tea.

And not a single word was exchanged about her being a landlady, not a housekeeper.

And the Winchesters? They did what they always did. Soon after Dean had spoke, they both had sat up simultaneously and went around to their sides of the impala. They swung in, and shut their doors at the same time. Dean drove. Together, the Winchester brothers rode along over the pavement of the road so far, the night sky brushing past them. Neither of them were angry or thinking about the day before. They weren't thinking about anything. They were just driving.

Almost like nothing had ever really changed, like they were actually driving away from that warehouse form so long ago, full of vamps and they'd never met Sherlock Holmes.

Almost like the bruises on their skin had vanished and gone numb.

Almost like everything was exactly the same

Almost, just almost, for one crisp clear second, like everything was always going to be okay.

The two brothers looked at each other for a good long moment, sharing one single message that for once, both of them believed.

Everything _was_ okay.

((Whoo! And there we have it! This has been a trek, eh? Longest I've ever written by far. Anyway, I know I don't usually leave author's notes, but I thought it would be appropriate seeing as how I was finishing this major fic. So, yeah, please feel free to follow and review and feel free to tell me which one I should post more of because there are just so many fics and I have know idea what the people want. So, that's it really. Stay sharp, my hunters and detectives!))


End file.
